MANUAL 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


DESIGNED   FOR   THE   USE   OF 


SCHOOLS  OF  ADVANCED  GRADES. 


BY 

N.  K.  ROYSE, 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  MANUAL  OF  AMERICAN   LITERATURE.' 


PHILADELPHIA: 
COWPERTHWAIT  &  CO. 

1882. 


COPYRIGHT, 
BY  N.  K.  ROYSE. 

1881. 


'/ 


PREFACE. 


TF  the  matter  of  the  present  work  shall  fail  to  apologize  satis- 
factorily  for  its  appearance  in  the  already  numerous  family 
of  manuals  of  English  literature,  it  is  still  hoped  that  the  man- 
ner in  which  such  matter  is  presented — the  arrangement  of  the 
work — will  commend  it  as  something  unlike  and  possibly  superior 
to  its  sister  manuals  as  a  normal  guide  to  the  student. 

The  author  believes  that  the  study  of  any  literature  properly 
begins  with  the  writings  of  its  living  authors,  and  proceeds  from 
these  to  those  of  modern,  and  from  modern  to  those  of  early 
authors,  the  earliest  coming  last.  And  he  rests  his  belief  in 
this  matter  on  the  indisputable  fact  that  the  literature  most 
readily  comprehensible  to  any  student  is  that  of  his  own  country 
and  his  own  age ;  for  the  literary  atmosphere — the  peculiar  idi- 
oms, the  natural  surroundings,  the  moral,  sesthetical,  social,  and 
political  ideas  and  sentiments — breathed  by  living,  native  au- 
thors is  the  same  that  is  breathed  by  himself.  An  American 
student,  therefore,  should  commence  his  study  of  literature  with 
the  writings  of  living  American  authors.*  This  done,  the  stu- 
dent's next  step  evidently  is  to  take  up  the  writings  of  living 
English  authors,  and  from  them,  as  from  its  mouth,  to  ascend 
the  successive  levels  of  the  great  stream  of  English  literature 
to  its  fountain  head.  To  facilitate  this  accomplishment  is  the 
purpose  of  the  present  manual.  . 

*  With  a  view  to  promote  this  end  the  author  prepared,  some  years  ago,  his  "  Man- 
ual of  American  Literature." 

M111G88 


IV  PREFACE. 

It  may  be  objected  to  the  foregoing  plan  that  the  literature 
of  no  age  can  be  intelligently  studied  without  at  the  same  time 
taking  into  account  the  national  and  social  bearings  upon  it  of 
preceding  literary  epochs.  This  is  undoubtedly  true ;  and  to 
obviate  the  difficulty  the  author  has  devoted  the  first  part  of 
this  work  to  a  sketch  of  the  history  of  English  literature,  begin- 
ning at  its  remote  source  and  descending  in  chronological  order 
to  its  present  Amazonian  mouth ;  for  a  satisfactory  understand- 
ing of  which  the  student  need  not  to  be  acquainted  with  the 
writings  of  any  author.  The  plan  of  the  work,  therefore,  natu- 
rally divides  itself  into  two  parts — part  first  being  a  sketch  of 
the  history  of  English  literature,  chronologically  considered,  and 
part  second  an  epitome  of  the  lives  and  works  of  the  represen- 
tative writers  of  English  literature,  treated  of  in  an  inverse 
chronological  order. 

Another  peculiarity  of  the  present  manual  is,  that  it  brings 
into  prominent  notice  only  such  writers  as  are  universally  ac- 
knowledged to  be  representative.  Life  is  not  long  enough — espe- 
cially student  life — for  an  exhaustive  study  of  any  literature ; 
and  if  it  were,  it  is  questionable  whether  the  wisest  policy  would 
not  restrict  one  to  a  study  of  the  works  of  the  most  eminent 
writers.  Such,  at  any  rate,  is  the  policy  of  the  present  work, 
only  fifty-three  writers  being  treated  of  at  length.  Writers  of 
less  importance  are  scarcely  more  than  named,  classified,  and 
located. 

N.  K.  ROYSE. 

CINCINNATI,  1881. 


CONTENTS. 


PART  FIRST. 

A  Sketch  of  the  History  of  English  Literature. 

PAGE 

THE  CELTS ]7 

ROMAN  DOMINATION 18 

THE  SAXON  CONQUEST 18 

EARLY  CELTIC  LITERATURE 18 

THE  SAXONS  ....  19 

THE  ANGLO-SAXONS,  OR  ENGLISH 19 

EARLY  ANGLO-SAXON  LITERATURE 20 

BEOWULF,  CAEDMON'S  PARAPHRASE 20 

"  THE  VENERABLE  BEDE,"  AND  OTHERS     .  •      •''/'•        •        •        -20 

THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST,  ITS  EFFECTS 21 

EARLY  LATIN  PROSE  WRITERS 22 

BRUT,  ORMULUM,  THE  OWL  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE,  ETC.       .        .  22 

A  NEW  LANGUAGE 23 

THE  VISION  OF  PIERS  PLOUGHMAN,  ETC 24 

JOHN  GOWER,  HIS  WRITINGS .24 

EARLIEST  ENGLISH  PROSE  LITERATURE 24 

JOHN  DE  WYCLIFFE 25 

THE  NEW  NATION 25 

SUMMARY  OF  LINGUISTIC  EPOCHS 25 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 25 

From  Chaucer  to  Elizabeth. 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  THE  FIFTEENTH  CENTURY       .        .        .        .26 

INTRODUCTION  OF  PRINTING 26 

ROBIN  HOOD,  AND  OTHER  BALLADS  .        .        .        .        .        .        .27 

OCCLEVE  AND  LYDGATE 27 

JAMES  I.  OF  SCOTLAND,  DUNBAR        .        .        .        ...        .        .27 

HENRYSON,  "BLIND  HARRY" 27 

PROSE  WRITERS  OF  THE  EPOCH 27 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  THE  FIRST  HALF  OF  THE  SIXTEENTH  CENTURY  28 

THE  REFORMATION 29 

THE  FIRST  COMEDY,  MASQUES,-  INTERLUDES 29 

BERNERS'  FROISSART 29 

SIR  THOMAS  MORE— LIFE  OF  RICHARD  III.,  UTOPIA      .        ,        .  29 

TYNDALE,  CRANMER,  RIDLEY,  LATIMER,  CHEKE,  ASCHAM     .        .  30 

l*  v 


Vl  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  POETS  OF  THE  EPOCH — SKELTON,  HAWES,  SURREY,  WYATT, 
LYNDSAY 30 

The  Age  of  Elisabeth  and  James  I. 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  THE  EPOCH 31 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY 32 

EDMUND  SPENSER 32 

OTHER  POETS  OF  THE  EPOCH— GASCOIGNE,  SACKVILL-E,  DANIEL, 

DRAYTON,  DONNE,  HALL 33 

PROSE  LITERATURE  OF  THE  EPOCH 33 

SIR  WALTER  EALEIGH,  HOLLINSHED,  CAMDEN,  SPEED,  FOXE,  DANIEL  33 

THEOLOGICAL  WRITERS 33 

PHILOSOPHY — HOBBES,  BACON 34 

ROBERT  BURTON,  HIS  ANATOMY  OF  MELANCHOLY  .        .        .        .34 

THE  DRAMA  OF  THE  AGE  OF  ELIZABETH 35 

DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  DRAMA — MIRACLE  PLAYS,  THE  MORALI- 
TIES, INTERLUDES,  LEGITIMATE  DRAMA         .        .        .        .     35, 36 

GORBODUC,  KYNGE  JOHAN 36 

RALPH  ROISTER  DOISTER 36 

EARLY  PLAYERS,  EARLY  THEATRES 36 

DRAMATISTS  OF  THE  EPOCH — LYLY,  KYD,  PEELE,  NASH,  GREENE, 

MARLOWE,  SHAKESPEARE,  JONSON 36,  37 

OTHER    DRAMATISTS  —  BEAUMONT    AND    FLETCHER,    MASSINGER, 
FORD,  WEBSTER,  MIDDLETON,  CHAPMAN,  DEKKER,  HEYWOOD  .  37 

Epoch  of  the  Civil  War  and  Commonwealth. 

CHARACTER  OF  THE  LITERATURE  OF  THE  EPOCH  .  .  .  .38 
THE  POETS— COWLEY,  QUALES,  HERRICK,  WTALLER,  CLEVELAND, 

LOVELACE,  SUCKLING,  HERBERT,  CRASHAW,  CAREW,  DENHAM  38,  39 

JOHN  MILTON 39 

PROSE  WRITERS  OF  THE  REVOLUTIONARY  EPOCH  .  .  .  .39 
SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE,  JEREMY  TAYLOR,  CHILLINGWORTH,  HALES, 

FULLER,  BAXTER 39, 40 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  THE  LITERATURE  OF  THIS  EPOCH  .  .  .40 
JOHN  BUNYAN 40 

The  Age  of  the  Restoration. 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  THE  AGE 40,  41 

SAMUEL  BUTLER 41 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  THE  DRAMA 41 

ETHEREGE,    WYCHERLEY,    VANBRUGH,     FARQUHAR,    CONGREVE, 
OTWAY,  LEE,  SOUTHERNS,  ROWE,  ETC 42 

The  Epoch  of  the  Revolution. 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  THE  LITERATURE  OF  THE  EPOCH  .  .  .42 
PHILOSOPHY — JOHN  LOCKE  .  43 


CONTENTS.  Vll 


PAGE 

THEOLOGY — BARROW,  TILLOTSON,  SOUTH,  STILLINGFLEET,  SPRAT, 

SHERLOCK,  BURNET 43 

SCIENCE— SIR  ISAAC  NEWTON 43 

The  Eighteenth  Century. 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  THE  POETRY  OF  THE  EPOCH  .  .  .  .44 
POPE,  SWIFT,  ARBUTHNOT,  PRIOR,  GAY,  PARNELL,  YOUNG  .  44,  45 
EISE  OF  THE  ESSAY— SIR  EICHARD  STEELE,  TEMPLE,  SHAFTES- 

BURY,    ATTERBURY,    BOLINGBROKE,    MANDEVILLE,    BERKELEY, 

LADY  MONTAGU,  JOSEPH  ADDISON. 45 

EISE  OF  THE  NOVEL,  OR  PROSE  FICTION 45 

DEFOE,  EICHARDSON,  FIELDING,  SMOLLETT,  GOLDSMITH,  LAURENCE 

STERNE 46 

HISTORY — HUME,  KOBERTSON,  GIBBON  ......  46 

BURKE,  JOHNSON 46 

OTHER  PROSE  WRITERS— BOSWELL,  ADAM  SMITH,  BLACKSTONE, 

BISHOP  BUTLER,  PALEY 46 

LETTERS  OF  JUNIUS  .  .  .  .  ...  .  .  .46 

ORATORY  AND  ORATORS 46 

TRANSITIONAL  POETS— THOMSON,  GRAY .47 

OTHER  POETS— SHENSTONE,  COLLINS,  AKENSIDE,  MACPHERSON, 

CHATTERTON,  CRABBE .47 

THE  COMIC  DRAMA — SHERIDAN,  GARRICK,  FOOTE,  CUMBERLAND, 

THE  COLMANS .47 

The  Nineteenth  Century. 

DAWN  OF  THE  TRANSITION 47 

^REVOLUTIONARY  AGENCIES .48 

KEVIVAL  OF  KOMANTIC  LITERATURE  ON  THE  CONTINENT       .        .  48 

EFFECTS  OF  THE  REVIVAL  IN  ENGLAND 49 

INTERNAL  CAUSES — COWPER,  BURNS 49 

ENGLISH  KOMANTIC  SCHOOL  OF  LITERATURE 50 

HISTORICAL  POETS  AND  EOMANCISTS.        .        .        .        .        .        .50 

PSYCHOLOGICAL  POETS 50 

Modern    Poetry— ITS    CHARACTERISTICS    AND     CHARACTERISTIC 

WRITERS     .        . 51 

Modern  Fiction— PECULIARITIES  OF  ITS  THREE  EARLIER  DEVEL- 
OPMENTS    . 52, 53 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  ITS  LATEST  DEVELOPMENTS  .  .  .  .54 
EFFECTS  OF  MODERN  POLITICAL  AND  SOCIAL  EVENTS  ON  THE 

PROSE  FICTION  OF  THE  PRESENT 55 

EXTENT  AND  CAPABILITIES  OF  FICTION     .        .        .          55,  56,  57,  58 
Modern    History — ITS   JUDICIAL   SPIRIT,   ITS  INDUSTRY  OF  EE- 
SEARCH,  ITS  BREADTH  OF   TREATMENT,  ITS   PICTURESQUENESS, 

ITS  PHILOSOPHIC  SPIRIT 59,  61,  62 

ITS  EARLIEST  EMINENT  EXPONENTS 60 


Viil  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

ITS  LATER  REPRESENTATIVE  WRITERS 62 

Modern  Periodical  Literature  . 62 

ITS  ORIGIN  AND  EXTENT 63 

NATURE  OF  THE  REVIEW 63 

NATURE  OF  THE  MAGAZINE 64 

Modern  Philosophy,  Theology,  Science,  Oratory,  and  Criticism  64 
PECULIARITIES  OF  MODERN  INQUIRY  .......  65 

EMINENT  RADICAL  EXPONENTS 65 

EMINENT  CONSERVATIVE  EXPONENTS 65 

GENERAL  PROGRESS  OF  THE  CENTURY  .  65 


PAJKT  SECOND. 

Representative  English  Writers. 
The  Nineteenth  Century. 

POETS. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON,  1809. 

BIOGRAPHY  :  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS         .        .        .        .66,  68,  70,  77 

EXTRACT  FROM  THE  PRINCESS 67 

"  "      IN  MEMORIAM  .        . 69 

"  "      THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR 71 

"  "      QUEEN  MARY 77 

CRITICISMS 70,  76,  77,  80 

ROBERT  BROWNING,  1812. 
BIOGRAPHY  :  HISTORY  OF  WORKS     .        .        .        .83,  84,  87,  90,  94 

AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP 83 

PIPPA'S  MUSINGS  ON  A  NEW  YEAR'S  DAY 85 

EXTRACT  FROM  THE  RING  AND  THE  BOOK 87 

POMPILIA'S  DYING  WORDS :        .        .    88 

THE  FAIR  AND  FIFINE 91 

CRITICISMS 90,  93 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING,  1809-1861. 

BIOGRAPHY  :  HISTORY  OF  WORKS     ....        95,  97,  101,  106 

THREE  SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE 96 

EXTRACTS  FROM  CASA  GUIDI  WINDOWS 97 

"      AURORA  LEIGH 102 

CRITICISMS 96, 101,  106 

WALTER  SAVAGE   LANDOR,  1775-1864. 

BIOGRAPHY:   HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS         .        .        .     108,111,114,117 
EXTRACT  FROM  GEBIR  ...  .108 


CONTENTS.  ix 


PAGE 

EXTRACT  FROM  COUNT  JULIAN Ill 

"      IMAGINARY  CONVERSATIONS 115 

CRITICISMS  108,  114,  117 

THOMAS  MOORE,  1779-1852. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS         .        .        .        .    119,127,128 

THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS 120 

DEAR  HARP  OF  MY  COUNTRY 120 

WHEN  COLD  IN  THE  EARTH .        .121 

EXTRACT  FROM  VEILED  PROPHET  OF  KHORASSAN  .        .        .        .122 

"  "      THE  FIRE-WORSHIPERS 123 

"  "      PARADISE  AND  THE  PERI 124 

CRITICISMS    .        .  .........        .        .    120,  121,  127 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH,  1770-1850. 
BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS        .  '      .        .        .        .        .  129 

A  FAREWELL 130 

LINES  COMPOSED  NEAR  TINTERN  ABBEY 131 

To  A  HIGHLAND  GIRL       .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  135 

SONNET 137 

EXTRACT  FROM  THE  EXCURSION •      .        .138 

CRITICISMS    .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .129,  137  141 

THOMAS  HOOD,  1798-1845. 

BIOGRAPHY  :  HISTORY  OF  WORKS     .....    143,  145,  148 

THE  SHADE'S  DEFENSE  OF  THE  FAIRIES 143 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT 146 

LAST  VERSES .  148 

THE  DISCOVERY 149 

THE  DUEL:  A  SERIOUS  BALLAD 150 

A  SERENADE        .        .        .        , 152 

CRITICISMS 153 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY,  1774-1843. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS         .        .        .    155,  158,  161,  163 

EXTRACT  FROM  MADOC 155 

THALABA'S  ADMISSION  TO  PARADISE 158 

RODERICK  IN  BATTLE 161 

CRITICISMS 163 

FELICIA  DOROTHEA  HEMAXS,  1794-1835. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 166 

BERNARDO  DEL  CARPIO 168 

THE  MESSAGE  TO  THE  DEAD 169 

THE  VOICE  OF  SPRING .      -  .        .  171 

EXTRACT  FROM  DE  CHATILLON 173 

CRITICISMS    .        .  .176 


CONTENTS. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE,  1772-1834.        PAGE 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WORKS 177 

THE  ANCIENT  MARINER— PART  1 180 

—PART  II.  . 182 

HYMN  BEFORE  THE  SUNRISE  IN  THE  VALE  OF  CHAMOUNI    .        .  183 

ON  SENSIBILITY 185 

CRITICISMS 183,  186 

LORD  BYRON,  1788-1824. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WORKS 187. 

EXTRACTS  FROM  CHILDE  HAROLD: 

LAKE  LEMAN 188 

BALL  AT  BRUSSELS 191 

EXTRACT  FROM  MANFRED 192 

CRITICISMS 191,  196 

PERCY  BYSSHE   SHELLEY,  1792-1822. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WORKS 198 

EXTRACT  FROM  QUEEN  MAB     .        . 200 

"  "      PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND 202 

"      HELLAS 204 

To  A  SKYLARK 205 

EXTRACT  FROM  EPIPSYCHIDION 208 

CRITICAL  OPINION *  .  199 

FICTIONISTS. 
"GEORGE   ELIOT,"  1820-1880. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 210 

EXTRACT  FROM  ADAM  BEDE 211 

"  "        MlDDLEMARCH 213 

CRITICISMS 216 

EDWARD  BULWER-LYTTON,  1805-1873. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 217,  228 

EXTRACT  FROM  MY  NOVEL 218 

"  "     KENELM  CHILLINGLY 220 

"  "      THE  LADY  OF  LYONS 224 

CRITICISMS 228 

CHARLES  DICKENS,  1812-1870. 

BIOGRAPHY  :  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS        .        .     230,  235,  237,  239,  242 

MR.  PICKWICK  AT  Miss  TOMKIN'S  SCHOOL 232 

THE  SACKING  OF  NEWGATE  PRISON 236 

THE  WIND 238 

DEATH  OF  LITTLE  PAUL 239 

CRITICISM  .  242 


CONTENTS.  xi 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY,  1811-1863. pAQE 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 245 

A  QUARREL  ABOUT  AN  HEIRESS 246 

A  VISIT  TO  CASTLEWOOD 250 

CRITICISM ' 254 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  1771-1832. 

BIOGRAPHY  :  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 255,  259 

'EXTRACT  FROM  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE       .        .        .  /     .        .  256 

"  "      ROB  ROY  .        . 260 

"  "      IVANHOE  .        .        . 262 

CRITICISMS 258,  264 

ESSAYISTS. 

JOHN  RUSKIN,  1819. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 266 

GREATNESS  IN  ART 267 

A  PICTURE  AND  ITS  LANDSCAPE 268 

THE  LAMP  OF  SACRIFICE 269 

THE  LAMP  OF  MEMORY 270 

CRITICISM 272 

THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY,  1785-1859. 

BIOGRAPHY:  LIST  OF  WORKS 273 

EXTRACT  FROM  THE  CONFESSIONS     .        .        .        .        .        .        .  274 

THE  VISION  OF  SUDDEN  DEATH 275 

CRITICISMS 278 

JOHN  WILSON,  1785-1854. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 279 

ADDRESS  TO  A  WILD  DEER 281 

EXTRACT  FROM  RECREATIONS    .        . 283 

"      KOCTES  AMBROSIAN^      .        .        .        .        .        .  284 

CRITICISMS 280,  286 

CHARLES  LAMB,  1775-1834. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 287 

EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA: 

THE  CONVALESCENT 288 

DREAM-CHILDREN 289 

CRITICISMS 291 

WILLIAM  HAZLITT,  1778-1830. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 292 

ON  THE  PLEASURE  OF  PAINTING 294 

ON  THE  FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN  YOUTH        ....  296 
CRITICISMS    .  .   293,  298 


Xli  CONTENTS. 


HISTORIANS. 

JAMES  ANTHONY  FKOUDE,  1818.  PAGE 

BIOGRAPHY  :   HISTORY  OF  WORKS 300,  304 

THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  THE  SPANISH  ARMADA         ....  300 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  QUEEN  ELIZABETH 302 

CRITICISMS 303 

THOMAS  CAKLYLE,  1795-1881. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WORKS 305 

EXTRACTS  FROM  SARTOR  KESARTUS 306 

THE  HERO  GENERALLY  AND  AS  DIVINITY      .        .        .  .  308 

THE  HERO  AS  POET .        .309 

THE  HERO  AS  PRIEST 309 

THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OF  LETTERS 309 

THE  HERO  AS  KING 310 

THE  BATTLE  OF  PRAG 311 

CRITICISMS  313 

GEORGE  GROTE,  1794-1871. 

BIOGRAPHY  :  HISTORY  OF  WORKS     .....    314,  319,  321 

THE  ARGON AUTIC  EXPEDITION 314 

THE  MUTILATION  OF  THE  HERMAE 316 

LIFE  OF  PLATO 319 

CRITICISMS 317,  3'20 

THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY,  1800-1859. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WORKS 322 

HORATIUS  AT  THE  BRIDGE 323 

CHARACTER  OF  THE  PURITANS 326 

THE  BATTLE  OF  SEDGEMOOR 328 

WILLIAM  AND  MARY 331 

CRITICISMS 326,  328,  332 

HENRY   HALLAM,  1777-1859. 

BIOGRAPHY  :  HISTORY  OF  WORKS 334,  336,  339 

CHARACTER  OF  CHARLEMAGNE 334 

ABOUT  TOURNAMENTS         . 335 

THE  EARLY  STATE  OF  IRELAND 336 

CRITICISMS 336,  338 

The  Eighteenth  Century. 

POETS. 

WILLIAM  COWPER,  1731-1800. 

BIOGRAPHY  :  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS        .     •  .        .        .    340,  343,  349 
MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE  .  340 


CONTENTS.  Xlli 


PAGE 

A  SUMMER  LANDSCAPE 344 

A  WINTER  SCENE 345 

THE  PREACHER 347 

KEPORT  OF  AN  ADJUDGED  CASE 350 

THE  SHRUBBERY 351 

CRITICISM 351 

BOBEET  BURKS,  1759-1796. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS        .        .        .        .        .        .  353 

THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT      .  ,.        .        .        .        .  355 

To  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY 359 

THE  WHISTLE 361 

YON  WILD  MOSSY  MOUNTAINS  .    * 363 

WINTER:  A  DIRGE 364 

BRUCE  AT  BANNOCKBURN 364 

FLOW  GENTLY,  SWEET  AFTON .  365 

CRITICISMS    ..........  .  366 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH,  1728-1774. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS        .  .        .        .        .        .  368 

EXTRACT  FROM  THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD 371 

EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE 374 

CRITICISMS ". 379 

THOMAS  GRAY,  1716-1771. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 380 

ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD       .        .        .        .381 
CRITICISM 385 

JAMES   THOMSON,  WOO-1748. 

BIOGRAPHY  :  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 386 

EXTRACT  FROM  SPRING 387 

"  "      SUMMER .389 

"  "      AUTUMN 390 

"  "      WINTER .        .391 

HYMN  TO  THE  SEASONS 392 

THE  CASTLE 395 

CRITICISM 397 

ALEXANDER  POPE,  1688-1744. 

BIOGRAPHY  :  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 398 

MESSIAH:  A  SACRED  ECLOGUE.        .......  400 

THE  RAPE  OF  TILE  LOCK — CANTO  THIRD 403 

EXTRACTS  FROM  AN  ESSAY  ON  MAN 405 

"       ELOISA  TO  ABELARD 408 

CRITICISMS 410 

2 


xiv  CONTENTS. 


FICTIONISTS. 

TOBIAS   SMOLLETT,  1721-1771.  PAGE 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 411 

EXTRACT  FROM  HUMPHREY  CLINKER 413 

CRITICISM 418 

SAMUEL  RICHARDSON,  1689-1761. 
BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS         .        .        .  .        .  419 

LETTER  300 — CLARISSA  TO  HER  MOTHER 421 

"       388— BELFORD  TO  LOVELACE 422 

"        418 — LOVELACE  TO  BELFORD 424 

CRITICISM 425 

HENRY   FIELDING,  1707-1754. 

BIOGRAPHY:   HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 427 

EXTRACTS  FROM  TOM  JONES 429,  430 

CRITICISM 433 

DANIEL  DE   FOE,  1661-1731. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 434 

EXTRACT  FROM  KOBINSON  CRUSOE 436 

CRITICISMS    .  . 441 

HISTORIANS. 

EDWARD  GIBBON,  1737-1794. 

BIOGRAPHY  :  HISTORY  OF  WORKS 443 

BELISARIUS'  DEFENSE  OF  ROME 445 

THE  PRINCES  AND  THE  PALACE  OF  CONSTANTINOPLE    .        .        .  447 
CRITICISM 448 

DAVID  HUME,  1711-1776. 

BIOGRAPHY:   HISTORY  OF  WORKS 450 

BATTLE  OF  POICTIERS .  451 

EXECUTION  OF  CHARLES  1 454 

CHARLES'  CHARACTER .  455 

CRITICISMS 456 

MISCELLANEOUS    WRITERS. 

RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN,  1751-1816. 

BIOGRAPHY  :  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 458 

EXTRACT  FROM  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 459 

EXTRACTS  FROM  SPEECH  AGAINST  WARREN  HASTINGS  .        .        .  464 
CRITICISMS 465 

.      EDMUND   BURKE,  1730-1797. 
BIOGRAPHY  :  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS        .        .        .        .        .        .  467 

EXTRACT  FROM  ESSAY  ON  THE  SUBLIME  AND  BEAUTIFUL     .        .  469 


CONTENTS.  xv 


PAGE 

EXTRACT  FROM  SPEECH  ON  CONCILIATION  WITH  AMERICA    .          470 
"  "      SPEECH  ON  THE  NABOB  OF  ARGOT'S  DEBTS  .        .  472 

"      SPEECH    ON    THE    IMPEACHMENT     OF    WARREN 

HASTINGS 473 

"      PAMPHLET  ON  THE  FRENCH  KEVOLUTION    .        .  474 
CRITICISMS 475 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  1709-1784. 

BIOGRAPHY:   HISTORY  OF  WORKS 477 

THREE  EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  EAMBLER  ....    479,  482,  483 
CRITICISMS 485 

JONATHAN  SWIFT,  1667-1745. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WORKS 487 

EXTRACT  FROM  A  TALE  OF  A  TUB 490 

"      A  VOYAGE  TO  LILIPUT  .        .        .  .        .  493 

"      A  VOYAGE  TO  BROBDINGNAG  .        .        .        .        .  495 

CRITICISM     . 496 

JOSEPH  ADDISON,  1672-1719. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 497 

EXTRACTS  FROM  CATO 500 

No.  440  FROM  SPECTATOR 503 

No.  441       "  "  504 

No.  463      "  «  506 

CRITICISM 508 

Epoch  of  the  Commonwealth  and  Restoration. 

JOHN  DEYDEN,  1631-1700. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 509 

EXTRACT  FROM  DON  SEBASTIAN 512 

ALEXANDER'S  FEAST 519 

CRITICISMS 522 

JOHN  BUNYAN,  1628-1688. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 523 

EXTRACT  FROM  THE  PILGRIM'S  PROGRESS 524 

CRITICISMS 527 

SAMUEL  BUTLER,  1612-1680. 

BIOGRAPHY  :   HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 529 

EXTRACT  FROM  HUDIBRAS 530 

CRITICISM ' 537 

JOHN  MILTON,  1608-1674, 

BIOGRAPHY:   HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 538 

EXTRACTS  FROM  AREOPAGITICA  .  542 


xvi  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

EXTRACT  FROM  PARADISE  LOST,  BOOK  I.  .  .  .  .  545 

"  "  "  "  "  V 546 

"VI 548 

"  X 552 

"XI 552 

CRITICISMS 553 

Epoch  of  Elizabeth  and  James  I. 

BEN  JONSON,  1574-1637. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS         .        .        .  .        .  555 

EXTRACT  FROM  EPICOENE 558 

"  "      THE  SAD  SHEPHERD 564 

CRITICISMS 568 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEAKE,  1564-1616. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WORKS     .......  569 

MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM,  ACT  I.,  Sc.  II 572 

"  "          "  III.,   "1 574 

KING  RICHARD  III.,  ACT  I.,  Sc.  IV 577 

MACBETH,  ACT  V.,  Sc.  V.  583 

"    V.,   "  VII 584 

CRITICISM 586 

FRANCIS  BACON,  1561-1626. 

BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS 588 

SOLOMON'S  HOUSE 591 

OF  STUDIES 593 

OF  ADVERSITY 594 

CRITICISMS 595 

EDMUND   SPENSER,  1552-1599. 

BIOGRAPHY:   HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS         .        .        .        .        .        .  597 

THE  DRAGON 600 

THE  BOWRE  or  BLISSE 604 

DIANA 610 

CRITICISM 612 

The  Age  of  Chaucer. 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER,  1328-1400. 
BIOGRAPHY:  HISTORY  OF  WRITINGS.        .        .        .        .        .          613 

EXTRACT  FROM  THE  KNIGHT'S  TALE 617 

"        "     MILLER'S  TALE 619 

"      SIRE  CLERK  OF  OXENFORDE'S  TALE     .        .        .621 
CRITICISM 615,  616,  627 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


A    MANUAL 


OF 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


z_ 

A   SKETCH   OF  THE  HISTORY  OF   ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

The  Celts. — The  earliest  inhabitants  of  the  British  Islands  of 
whom  we  have  any  knowledge  consisted  of  various  branches — the 
Gaelic,  the  Cymric,  the  Teutonic,  and  the  Scandinavian  —  of  the 
great  Celtic  family,  which,  issuing  from  the  East,  had  long  before 
the  Christian  era  fixed,  in  so  far  as  their  nomadic  instinct  would 
allow,  their  residence  in  those  portions  of  northern  and  western 
Europe  that  border  the  Baltic  and  North  "seas.  These  pristine 
people,  whom  we  shall  now  call  Britons,  at  the  time  when  Greek 
and  Eoman  navigators  made  their  acquaintance,  had  acquired  in 
the  southern  and  level  portions  of  the  island  some  rude  knowledge 
of  agriculture,  and  in  their  dwellings,  in  their  implements  of  war, 
and  their  tools,  and  in  their  dress,  had  made  some  slight  advance 
upon  their  aboriginal  simplicity.  But  in  the  mountainous  and  less 
arable  regions  of  the  north  and  west,  they  very  generally  led  the 
wandering  life  of  herdsmen,  tattooed  their  bodies,  clothed  them- 
selves in  skins  of  beasts,  and  lodged  in  miserable  and  temporary 
huts. 

The  entire  people  were  divided  into  small  tribes,  each  under  the 
nominal  control  of  a  chieftain ;  for  their  innate  spirit  of  indepen- 
dence would  brook  only  the  slightest  political  restraints.  War  was 
their  almost  constant  employment;  and  consequently  the  attain- 
ment of  physical  strength  and  the  skillful  use  of  warlike  weapons 
were  the  great  objects  of  their  ambition.  Their  religion  was  super- 
stitious in  the  extreme,  and  their  priests— the  Druids — exercised, 
in  a  most  absolute  manner,  the  offices  of  religious  and  secular 
teachers,  lawgivers,  and  judges. 

2*  B  17 


1 S  3A-  NUA  L   OF  ENGLISH  LITER  A  TURE. 

Roman  Domination. — But  even  these  barbarians  excited  the 
cupidity  of  Julius  Csesar,  and  a  portion  of  them  at  least,  in  55  B.C., 
fell  under  the  Roman  yoke.  The  ensuing  five  hundred  years,  dur- 
ing which  the  conquerors  maintained  a  more  or  less  perfect  con- 
trol of  the  southern  and  central  portions  of  the  island,  were  pro- 
ductive of  material  changes  in  the  manners  and  customs  of  the 
subjugated  Britons.  Their  primitive  mantle  of  skins  was  replaced 
by  the  toga,  a  vest,  tunic,  and  trowsers  of  cloth ;  the  rude  hut  and 
frail  boat,  made  of  osiers  and  skins,  gave  place  to  comparatively 
substantial  and  comfortable  dwellings  and  serviceable  galleys;  a 
coined  currency  supplanted  the  practice  of  bartering;  Christianity 
displaced  Druidical  worship ;  and  not  a  few  of  the  native  youth 
repaired  to  Rome  for  their  education,  and,  returning,  did  much 
toward  promoting — what  daily  intercourse  between  the  Romans 
and  Britons  had  from  the  beginning  necessitated  —  the  introduction 
of  divers  Latin  words  and  grammatical  forms  into  their  vernacular. 

But  this  imposed  and  largely  superficial  civilization  was  doomed 
to  an  almost  complete  extinction  ;  for  when  the  Romans,  in  448 
A.D.,  withdrew  from  Britain,  to  defend  their  menaced  empire  at 
home,  the  aboriginal  barbarians  of  the  island  —  now  known  as 
Picts  and  Scots  —  swept  like  an  avalanche  from  the  mountain 
fastnesses  of  Caledonia  and  Wales,  southward  and  eastward,  deso- 
lating in  a  day,  as  it  were,  the  exogenous  growths  of  nearly  five 
centuries. 

The  Sttxon  Conquest. — The  Britons,  enervated  by  the  late 
domination  of  the  Romans,  called  on  the  Saxons,  the  most  for- 
midable of  those  cognate  Celtic  tribes  that  inhabited  the  sea-coast 
from  the  mouth  of  the  Rhine  to  Jutland,  to  assist  them  in  repell- 
ing the  invasion  of  the  native  barbarians.  The  Saxons  readily  re- 
sponded ;  but  having  accomplished  the  work  to  which  they  were 
invited,  next  subjugated  the  Britons  also;  and  subsequently,  being 
reinforced  by  numerous  swarms  of  their  tribe  from  the  Conti- 
nent, they  established,  in  a  comparatively  brief  space,  the  Saxon 
Heptarchy. 

Early  Celtic  Literature. — The  fierce  struggles  which  at- 
tended the  Saxon  triumph  were  productive  of  the  earliest  fruits 
of  insular  Celtic  literature.  The  battle  of  Cattraeth,  supposed  to 
have  been  fought  in  570,  was  celebrated  by  ANEURIN,  one  of  the 
foremost  of  the  ancient  bards,  in  his  poem  of  Gododin.  Urien,  the 
great  Cymric  chief  of  the  north  of  England,  had  his  warlike  exploits 
sung  by  LLYWAIICH  the  Old  ;  while  in  the  south,  King  Arthur's 
achievements  were  extolled  by  MERLIN. 

Indeed,  it  is  certain  that,  from  the  earliest  centuries  of  the  Chris- 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  19 

tian  era,  there  existed  a  distinct  literary  class  among  the  Celts  of 
the  British  Isles.  The  officially  recognized  poet,  and  the  historian 
by  hereditary  descent,  no  less  than  the  Druid  and  the  chief,  con- 
stituted essential  features  of  the  tribal  establishment.  A  vivid  and 
bold  imagination,  that  sought  expression  in  figurative  language ; 
delight  in  bright  colors  and  in  music;  a  high  sense  of  honor,  and 
a  fervid  religious  enthusiasm, — these  were  the  leading  elements  of 
the  Celtic  mind. 

The  Saxon  conquest  effectually  drove  the  Celts  of  the  north  arid 
west,  and  also  many  of  the  Britons,  into  the  mountains  of  Wales, 
the  highlands  of  Scotland^  and  across  the  sea  into  Ireland;  and 
here,  to-day,  we  find  in  the  patois  and  old  legends  of  the  rustic 
population  the  nearest  approximation  to  the  speech  and  literature 
of  the  primitive  inhabitants  of  the  British  Isles.  The  participation 
of  the  ancient  Celtic  speech  in  the  present  constitution  of  the  Eng- 
lish language  is  quite  inappreciable,  only  a  very  small  number  of 
our  words  being  traceable  directly  to  the  Celtic ;  and  the  influence 
of  its  rude  and  scanty  literature  it  is  beyond  the  nicest  discernment 
to  detect. 

The  Saxons. — The  Saxons,  who  for  the  next  four  hundred 
years  maintained  rule  in  England,  were  a  branch  of  the  great 
Teutonic  race  which  occupied  western  and  north-western  Europe. 
With  heavy  bodies,  fierce  blue  eyes,  flaxen  hair,  of  a  cold  tempera- 
ment, given  to  drunkenness  and  gluttony,  and  quarrelsome,  it  may 
be  readily  supposed  that  they  were  little,  if  any,  superior  to  the 
supplanted  Britons.  But  underneath  these  grossnesses  there  were 
large  capabilities  and  noble  tendencies.  Earnestness,  a  spirit  of 
self-reliance,  fidelity  to  duty,  a  'high  sense  of  chastity,  a  masculine 
strength  of  will,  and  courage,  were  some  of  the  native  qualities 
of  these  inchoate  Englishmen. 

The  Saxons,  however,  were  not  alone  in  their  occupancy  of 
England.  Closely  following  them,  there  came  to  such  portions  of 
the  island  as  lay  opposite  their  continental  homes,  Scandinavians, 
Danes,  and  Frisians — the  latter  the  ancestors  of  the  modern  Dutch, 
— all  Teutonic  tribes.  These  all,  after  some  contention,  through 
community  of  interest  and  intermarriages,  very  naturally  fused  to- 
gether as  one  people,  under  the  foreign  name  of  ANGLO-SAXONS — 
the  term  meaning  only  English  Saxon — but  under  the  domestic 
name  of  ENGLISH.  The  inevitable  result  of  this  merging  of  tribes 
into  a  common  people  was  a  fusion  also  of  the  various  Teutonic 
dialects,  which  these  several  tribes  employed  and  which  were 
closely  related,  into  one  common  speech,  which  at  home  was 
called,  after  the  people,  English,  and  abroad,  Anglo-Saxon. 


20  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Early  Anglo-Saxon  Literature. — These  Teutonic  immi- 
grants brought  to  England,  along  with  their  weapons  of  war, 
savage  customs,  and  pagan  worship,  certain  rude  battle-songs,  and 
a  heroic  legend  concerning  a  chief  named  Beowulf.  After  the 
fusion  of  tribes  and  dialects  to  which  we  have  alluded  had  been 
accomplished,  probably  in  the  seventh  century,  this  saga,  or  poem, 
was  translated  into  the  new  tongue,  and  thus  became  one  of  the 
most  ancient  monuments  of  Anglo-Saxon,  or,  as  it  is  sometimes  called, 
First  English  Literature.* 

As  early  as  the  fourth  century,  it  is  pretty  certain  that  Christian 
missionaries,  both  native  and  continental,  began  their  pious  labors 
in  the  British  Isles.  Such,  of  the  native  Celtic  stock,  were  Morgan 
of  England,  St.  Patrick  of  Ireland,  and  St.  David  of  Wales.  Indeed, 
it  was  mainly  through  Celtic  teachers  that  the  English  of  the  north 
received  their  first  religious  instruction  ;  and  under  these  spiritual 
influences  sprang  up  about  670  the  second  great  poem  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  literature — Caedmon's  Paraphrase.^ 

In  both  of  the  foregoing  poems,  as  well  as  in  all  others  of  an 
Anglo-Saxon  origin,  there  was  neither  rhyme  nor  a  regular  recur- 
rence of  syllables  of  varying  lengths.  The  sole  secret  of  their 
mechanism  lay  in  bringing  together  in  the  same  line  a  certain 
number  of  words — two  or  three — beginning  with  the  same  letter, 
a  species  of  meter  called  alliteration. 

If  we  except  two  collections  of  Anglo-Saxon  poems,  known  as 
the  Exeter  Book  and  the  Vercelli  Book,  the  writings  of  the  period  ex- 
tending from  the  time  of  Caedmon  to  the  Norman  Conquest  were, 
for  the  most  part,  produced  by  monastics  in  Latin,  this  language 
being  most  emphatically  at  that  time  the  medium  of  the  learned. 
Of  such  writers  were  Aldhelm,  the  "  venerable  "  Bede,  Wilfred, 
Alctiin,  and  John  Scotus,  surnamed  Erigena.  The  most  import- 
ant of  their  writings  was  Bede's  Ecclesiastical  History. I 

*  The  poem  describes  the  expedition  of  Beowulf,  a  prince  of  divine  origin,  from 
England  to  Norway,  for  the  purpose  of  destroying  a  monster  that  secretly  wrought 
havoc  at  night  among  the  warrior  sleepers  in  the  royal  hall.  The  hero  succeeds  in 
driving  the  monster,  whose  name  was  Grendel,  back  into  his  native  fen.  Afterward 
he  himself  becomes  ruler,  encounters  another  dragon,  by  which  he  is  slain,  and  is 
finally  buried  under  a  great  barrow  on  a  lofty  promontory.  The  incidents  of  the 
poem,  though  manifestly  fictitious,  vividly  set  forth  the  genuine  lives  of  the  Scandi- 
navian and  Danish  chiefs  of  those  days;  the  peculiar  customs,  ceremonies, and  con- 
versation of  the  old  banquet  hall,  where  were  gathered  the  chief  and  his  hearth- 
sharers,  being  graphically  delineated. 

t  In  this  poem  its  author  sings  of  Creation,  the  War  in  Heaven.  Satan,  the  Fall  of 
Man,  the  Flood,  Abraham,  the  Passage  of  the  Red  Sea.  and  events  of  the  Book  of 
Daniel,  closing  the  epic  with  Belshazzar's  Feast. 

J  "  Bede  did  not  doubt  reported  miracles,  and  that  part  of  the  religious  faith  of 
his  time  supplies  details  which  we  should  be  glad  now  to  exchange  for  other  infor- 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  21 

King  Alfred,  either  personally  or  as  a  patron,  also  contributed 
much  toward  the  literary  advancement  of  his  age  by  his  transla- 
tions of  good  and  useful  Latin  writings,  and  by  his  establishment 
of  the  Anglo-Saxon  Chronicle. 

"The  best  Anglo-Saxon  writers  were  purists  in  style,  and  re- 
luctantly admitted  Latin  words  into  their  vocabulary.  Hence  the 
number  of  such  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  Gospels,  the  works  of  Alfric  and 
of  Alfred,  and,  indeed,  in  all  the  native  literature  of  England,  so  long 
as  A^nglo-Saxon  continued  to  be  a  written  language,  is  very  small. 

"Although  the  Anglo-Saxon  is  the  bubbling  well-spring  whose 
sweet  waters  have  given  a  specific  flavor  to  the  broader  and  more 
impetuous  current  of  our  maternal  speech,  yet  the  literature  of 
ancient  Anglia  stands  in  no  such  relation  to  that  of  modern  Eng- 
land. Beowulf,  and  the  songs  of  Caedmon  and  Cynewulf,  and  even 
the  relics  of  the  great  Alfred,  were  buried  out  of  sight  and  forgot- 
ten long  before  any  work,  now  recognized  as  distinctively  English 
in  spirit,  had  been  conceived  in  the  imagination  of  its  author.  The 
earliest  truly  English  writers  borrowed  neither  imagery  nor  thought 
nor  plan,  seldom  even  form,  from  older  native  models,  and  hence 
Anglo-Saxon  literature,  so  far  from  being  the  mother,  was  not  even 
the  nurse  of  the  infant  genius  which  opened  its  eyes  to  the  sun  of 
England  five  centuries  ago."* 

The  Normitn  Conquest. — The  latter  part  of  the  eleventh  cen- 
tury witnessed  a  momentous  event  for  England,  in  its  subjugation 
by  the  Normans  under  William  the  Conqueror.  These  Normans, 
though  originally  descended  from  the  same  Teutonic  stock  as  were 
the  Anglo-Saxons,  had,  by  proximity  of  residence  to  and  inter- 
course with  the  people  of  southern  and  interior  Europe,  imbibed 
from  them  no  small  draughts  of  civilization  and  culture.  Their 
rude  vernacular  they  had  exchanged  for  a  dialect  of  the  great  Ro- 
mance speech,  then  prevalent  in  south-western  Europe,  and  which 
was  a  modification  of  classical  Latin.  Their  predatory  and  nomadic 
habits  as  Northmen,  they  had  discarded  for  the  systematic  institu- 
tions of  Feudalism,  and  their  rugged  sagas  were  displaced  by  the 
lais,  romances,  and  fabliaux  of  the  literature  of  chivalry. 

These  feudal  institutions  and  this  chivalresque  literature  and 

mation  upon  matters  whereof  he  gives  too  bare  a  chronicle ;  but  whatever  its  defects, 
he  has  left  us  a  history  of  the  early  years  of  England,  succinct,  yet  often  warm  with 
life ;  business-like,  and  yet  childlike  in  its  tone ;  at  once  practical  and  spiritual,  sim- 
ply just,  and  the  work  of  a  true  scholar,  breathing  love  to  God  and  man.  We  owe  to 
Bede  alone  the  knowledge  of  much  that  is  most  interesting  in  our  early  history. 
Bede  died  in  the  year  735,  three  years  after  the  completion  of  his  history."— .4  First 
Sketch  of  English  Literature.— MORLEY. 
*  The  English  Language  and  its  Early  Literature.— MARSH. 


22  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

language  the  Normans  transplanted  into  England  at  the  time  of 
the  Conquest.  Superiority  of  skill  in  civic  and  military  aft'airs 
remained  with  the  conquerors,  superiority  of  numbers  with  the 
conquered.  The  imported  language — the  Norman-French — be- 
came, therefore,  the  speech  of  the  court  and  governing  class; 
the  native  Anglo-Saxon  continued  to  be  the  language  of  the 
masses;  while  Latin,  as  formerly,  constituted  the  vehicle  of  the 
writings  of  monastics  and  the  learned  generally.  Consequently, 
for  about  two  hundred  years  after  the  Conquest,  England  pre- 
sented the  interesting  spectacle  of  three  distinct  languages,  each 
maintained  by  a  class  efficient  either  in  point  of  intellectual  or 
numerical  force,  subsisting  side  by  side  with  but  slight  evidence  of 
any  intermixture.  Of  these  three  the  Latin  maintained  a  predomi- 
nance as  a  written  language.  The  chief  authors  were  ecclesiastics.* 
But  the  common  people,  as  well  as  the  cloistered  and  privileged 
classes,  had  their  literary  purveyors.  Walter  Map  rendered  into 
Anglo-Saxon,  and,  it  is  conceded,  largely  vitalized  and  gave  present 
interest  to,  the  romances  concerning  Arthur;  while  in  the  depart- 
ment of  original  vernacular  poetry,  we  meet  with  Layamon,  author 
of  Brutfi  a  poem  of  32,250  lines ;  Ormin,  author  of  the  poem  Ormu- 
lum,  and  Nicholas  of  Guildford,  author  of  The  Owl  and  the  Nightin- 
gale. Beside  these,  there  sprung  up  homilies,  creeds,  pater-nosters, 
gaudia,  and  devotional  poems  in  no  small  number.  Translations 
also  of  popular  French  romances  into  the  Anglo-Saxon  were  made 
in  the  reign  of  Henry  III.  Such,  for  example,  were  King  Horn, 

*  Of  such  writers,  we  may  name  as  the  most  prominent,  Ordericus  Vitalus,  author 
of  an  Ecclesiastical  History  of  England  and  Normandy;  William  of  Malmesbury.  author 
of  the  History  of  the  Kings  of  England;  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  author  of  History  of 
British  Kings ;  John  of  Salisbury,  Athelard  of  Bath,  writers  on  mathematics  and 
science :  Ralph  Glanville,  author  of  a  treatise  Upon  the  Laws  and  Customs  of  the 
Kingdom  of  England;  Joseph  of  Exeter  and  Alexander  Neckam,  authors  of  Latin 
poems ;  Geoffrey  de  Vinsauf,  whose  work,  De  Nova  Poetria,  was  the  earliest  piece  of 
literary  criticism ;  Giraldus  Cambrensis,  author  of  History  of  the  Conquest  of  Ire- 
land; Roger  Bacon,  the  great  philosopher  of  his  day,  as  attested  by  his  works,  Opus 
Majus,  Opus  Minus,  and  Opus  Tertium.  Other  representatives  of  Anglo-Norman  liter- 
ature were,  of  theologians  and  schoolmen,  Lanfranc,  Anselm,  Peter  of  Blois,  Alex- 
ander Hale.s,  John  Scotus,  William  of  Occam ;  of  chroniclers,  William  of  Poictiers, 
Henry  of  Huntingdon,  Matthew  Paris,  Ralph  Higden  ;  of  poets,  Hilarius  and  Walter 
Mapes. 

f  "  This  commenced  with  the  destruction  of  Troy  and  the  flight  of  ^Eneas,  from 
whom  descended  Brutus,  the  founder  of  the  British  monarchy,  and  extends  to  the 
reign  of  Athelstan.  The  authorities  on  which  Layamon  founds  his  narrative,  as  he 
himself  states,  are  the  English  book  that  St.  Beda  made.  The  versification  is  irregu- 
lar, sometimes  unrhymed  and  alliterative,  like  that  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,  and  some- 
times rhymed  like  that  of  Wace ;  sometimes  merely  rhythmical,  sometimes  in  lines 
composed  of  regular  feet,  thus  showing,  in  the  structure  of  the  verse  as  well  as  in 
the  syntax,  evidences  of  Normau  influence.  The  rhymed  lines  bear  but  a  small 
proportion  to  the  alliterative,  and  in  general  the  rhythm  follows  that  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  models."—  The  English  Language  and  its  Early  Literature.— MARSH. 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  23 

and  the  Romance  of  Alexander.  To  this  period  also  belong  the  first 
Miracle  Plays  enacted  in  England,  which  were  imported  from 
France  by  Hilarius,  an  Englishman. 

A  New  Language. — The  potent  influence  exerted  by  a  gradual 
commingling  of  social  and  political  interests  forbade  that  the  lin- 
guistic barriers  between  ecclesiastic  Latin,  courtly  Norman-French, 
and  democratic  Anglo-Saxon  should  long  remain  unbroken.  The 
transaction  of  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life  demanded  a  verbal  under- 
standing and  communication  between  sovereign  and  subject,  be- 
tween knight  and  vassal,  between  priest  and  layman.  This  un- 
derstanding and  this  communication  were  established  by  mutual 
sacrifices,  principally  of  the  structural  peculiarities  of  the  speech 
of  each  of  the  peoples  brought  into  contact.  Even  before  the 
Conquest,  changes  had  begun  to  appear  in  the  orthography  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  tongue;  as,  for  instance,  the  substitution  of  the  vowel 
e  for  the  different  inflectional  terminations. 

The  Conquest  brought  about  a  large  influx  of  French  and  Latin 
words,  which  found  a  permanent  place  in  the  subsequent  language, 
either  by  crowding  out  vernaculars  or  else  by  expanding  the  vo- 
cabulary. Then,  in  the  early  and  awkward  attempts  of  each  peo- 
ple to  speak  the  language  of  the  other,  there  arose  marked  con- 
tractions and  modifications  in  pronunciation  and  orthography; 
inflections  were  ignorantly  omitted ;  their  places  being  taken  by 
articles,  auxiliaries,  and  prepositions.  In  this  manner  a  new 
language  began  to  assert  itself  in  England,  composed,  as  to  its 
philological  elements,  of  Norman-French,  classic  Latin,  and  Anglo- 
Saxon,  and  characterized,  in  grammatical  structure,  by  the  em- 
ployment of  particles  and  auxiliaries  of  relationship  in  place  of 
the  ancient  inflections.* 

In  some  such  condition  was  the  language  when  Chaucer,  about 
the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century,  seized  on  its  yet  plastic  ele- 
ments, and  with  a  strong  and  skillful  hand  moulded  them  into 
definite  and  symmetrical  structures.  A  special  chapter  will  here- 

*  "  The  Anglo-Saxon  and  the  Norman-French,  from  the  union  of  which  the  Eng- 
lish is  chiefly  derived,  were  inflected  languages,  and  had  the  syntactical  peculiari- 
ties common  to  most  grammars  with  inflections ;  but  in  the  friction  between  the  two, 
the  variable  and  more  loosely  attached  growths  of  both  were  rubbed  off,  and  the 
speech  of  England,  in  becoming  stamped  as  distinctively  English,  dropped  so  many 
native,  and  supplied  their  place  with  so  few  borrowed,  verbal  and  nominal  endings, 
that  it  ceased  to  belong  to  the  inflected  class  of  tongues,  and  adopted  a  grammar, 
founded  in  a  considerable  degree  upon  principles  which  characterize  that  of  neither 
of  the  parent  stocks  from  which  it  is  derived.  It  is  altogether  a  new  philological 
individual,  distinct  in  linguistic  character  from  all  other  European  speeches,  and  not 
theoretically  to  be  assimilated  to  them."— The  English  Language  and  its  Early  Litera- 
ture.—MARSH. 


24  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

after  be  devoted  to  the  writings  of  this  illustrious  pioneer  of  Eng- 
lish literature. 

Though,  as  we  have  seen,  most  of  the  writings  now  known  to  us, 
of  the  period  reaching  from  the  Conquest  to  Chaucer,  were  the 
works  of  ecclesiastics,  and  were  composed  in  Latin,  the  sympathies 
of  the  masses  demanded  for  their  excitement,  and  realized  too,  com- 
positions wrought  in  the  vernacular  dialect,  and  breathing  a  free 
and  native  spirit  and  fancy.  Such  were  Richard  Rolle's  poem, 
The  Pricke  of  Conscience,  the  war  epics  of  Lawrence  Minot,  and 
Robert  Langlande's  Vision  of  Piers  Ploughman*  (1360-1370). 

The  most  considerable  literary  figure  of  this  epoch,  however,  was 
John  Gower,  who  wrote  three  great  poetical  works,  Speculum 
Meditantis,  in  French;  Vox  Clamantis,  in  Latin;  and  Confessio 
Amantis,  in  English. f 

English  Prose  Literature  received  its  first  contribution  from 
Sir  John  de  Mandeville,  a  traveler  of  extensive  experience  in  Ori- 
ental lands.  The  account  of  his  travels  was  dedicated  to  Edward 
III.,  in  1356.J 

*  "The  Vision  of  Piers  Ploughman  derives  its  interest,  not  from  the  absolute  novelty 
of  its  revelation,  but  partly  from  its  literary  form,  partly  from  the  moral  and  social 
bearings  of  its  subject — the  corruptions  of  the  nobility  and  of  the  several  depart- 
ments of  the  government,  the  vices  of  the  clergy,  and  the  abuses  of  the  church ;  in 
short,  from  its  connection  with  the  actual  life  and  opinion  of  its  time,  into  which  it 
gives  us  a  clearer  insight  than  many  a  labored  history.  Its  dialect,  its  tone,  and  its 
poetic  dress  alike  conspired  to  secure  to  the  Vision  a  wide  circulation  among  the 
commonalty  of  the  realm.  The  movement  of  the  poem  is,  to  a  considerable  extent, 
dialogistic,  and  in  these  portions  the  dialect  is  evidently  colloquial,  though  the 
characters  are  not  sufficiently  individualized  to  give  the  performance  much  of 
dramatic  effect;  but  it  seems  extremely  well  calculated  to  influence  the  class  for 
whose  use  it  was  chiefly  intended,  and  the  success  it  met  with  sufficiently  proves 
that,  in  spite  of  its  Latin  quotations,  it  was,  in  the  main,  well  suited  to  their  compre- 
hension."— The  English  Language  and  its  Early  Literature. — MARSH. 

f  "  Of  original  imaginative  power,  the  poem  shows  not  the  slightest  trace,  and  its 
principal  merit  lies  in  the  sententious  passages  which  are  here  and  there  interspersed, 
and  which,  whether  borrowed  or  original,  are  often  pithy  and  striking.  The  Con- 
fessio Amantis  did  not  directly  aid  in  enlarging  the  vocabulary  or  improving  the 
syntax  of  English  ;  and  it  did  not  introduce  new  metrical  forms  or  enrich  the  poeti- 
cal diction.  But  it  was  useful  in  diffusing  a  knowledge  of  the  new  literary  tongue, 
in  familiarizing  the  English  speech  as  a  written  language  to  those  whose  proper  heri- 
tage it  was— but  who  had  been  taught  alien  accents  through  a  foreign  nurse— thus 
giving  to  it  its  just  and  lawful  predominance  in  the  land  where  it  was  cradled,  and 
had  now  grown  to  a  strong  and  luxuriant  adolescence. 

"Gower  was  rather  an  imitator  of  Chaucer  than  the  creator  of  his  own  literary 
style ;  but  his  works,  as  being  of  a  higher  moral  tone,  or  at  least  of  higher  moral  pre- 
tensions, and  at  the  same  time  of  less  artificial  refinement,  were  calculated  to  reach 
and  influence  a  somewhat  larger  class  than  that  which  would  be  attracted  by 
the  poems  of  Chaucer,  and,  consequently,  they  seem  to  have  had  a  wider  circu- 
lation."—G.  P.  MARSH. 

I  Although  the  style  and  grammatical  structure  of  Mandeville  are  idiomatic,  yet 
the  proportion  of  words  of  Latin  and  French  origin  employed  by  him  in  his  straight- 
forward, unpo  tical,  and  unadorned  narrative,  is  greater  than  that  found  in  the 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  25 

One  more  achievement,  and  that  of  primary  importance,  remains 
to  be  noticed ;  namely,  the  translation  of  the  Bible  into  the  new  tongue, 
about  1380,  by  John  de  Wycliffe.  The  Anglo-Saxons  had  long  be- 
fore possessed  a  translation  into  their  vernacular  of  the  Gospels, 
and  there  were  extant  numerous  translations  of  fragments  of  Scrip- 
ture in  the  French ;  but,  excepting  the  Psalter,  there  existed  up  to 
the  time  of  which  we  now  speak  no  translation  into  the  new  or 
English  tongue  of  any  considerable  portion  of  the  sacred  writings. 
Grateful,  no  doubt,  for  the  service  the  knowledge  of  God's  word  had 
rendered  him,  in  enlightening  his  conscience  and  preparing  his 
mind  for  an  apprehension  of  the  fallacies,  presumptions,  and  cor- 
ruptions of  the  priesthood  and  papacy,  this  pious,  learned,  and 
courageous  priest  resolved  by  his  own  labor,  however  vast,  to  place 
in  the  hands  of  the  common  people  the  same  infallible  safeguard 
of  their  sacred  rights.*  • 

The  New  Nation.  —  Concurrent  with  the  development  of  the 
English  language  was  the  evolution  of  the  English  people.  Just 
as  the  native  Anglo-Saxon  words  came  to  take  place  side  by  side 
with  Norman-French  and  scholarly  Latin  in  the  constitution  of 
the  new  language,  so  the  native  people,  either  by  coalition  with 
disaffected  Norman  nobles,  or  by  bold,  independent  struggles,  suc- 
ceeded gradually  in  raising  themselves  above  the  mean  condition 
of  serfs  and  vassals,  to  the  enjoyment  of  personal  liberty,  the  pos- 
session of  political  rights  and  property,  and  the  exercise  of  official 
functions.  The  insular  and  continental  wars  waged  by  the  Plari- 
tagenets  discovered,  in  their  most  striking  light,  the  sturdy  energies 
and  sterling  virtues  of  the  indigenous  yeomanry  of  England ;  and 
it  was  soon  realized  by  the  ruling  class  that  he  who  would  insure 
control  in  the  future  affairs  of  the  realm  must  respect  and  foster 
the  welfare  of  the  masses. 

Out  of  this  reciprocity  of  interests  there  speedily  issued  a  spirit 
of  unity  and  nationality, — each  constituent  element  of  the  nation- 
ality parting,  as  in  the  fusion  of  the  separate  languages,  with  minor 
peculiarities,  to  assume  harmonious  relations  in  a  new  whole. 
Thus,  about  the  middle  of  the  fourteenth  century,  England  dis- 

works  of  Langlande,  Chaucer,  Gower,  or  any  other  English  poet  of  that  century."— 
G.  P.  MARSH. 

*"One  of  the  most  important  effects  produced  by  the  Wycliffe  versions  on  the 
English  language  was  the  establishment  of  what  is  called  the  sacred  or  religious  dia- 
lect, which  was  first  fixed  in  those  versions,  and  has,  with  little  variation,  continued 
to  be  the  language  of  devotion  and  of  scriptural  translation  to  the  present  day. 

"Although  Langlande  and  the  school  of  Wycliffe  are  not  to  be  looked  upon  as 
great  immediate  agencies  in  the  general  improvement  of  written  English,  or  as 
standards  of  the  literary  dialect  in  their  own  age,  there  can  be  little  doubt  that 
they  did  exercise  a  direct  influence  upon  the  diction  of  Chaucer,  and,  through  him, 
on  the  whole  literature  of  the  nation."— G.  P.  MARSH. 
3 


26  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

closes  the  grand  spectacle  of  the  simultaneous  rise  of  a  new  nation, 
a  new  language,  and  a  new  literature, — each  to  be  hereafter  known 
as  English.* 

From  Chaucer  to  Elizabeth. — The  fourteenth  century,  with 
its  stirring  events  and  splendid  literary  productions,  having  passed, 
there  succeeded  a  protracted  barren  period  in  the  history  of  Eng- 
lish literature.  This  is  to  be  attributed  largely  to  the  internecine 
struggles  and  the  exhausting  civil  wars  that  characterized  this 
epoch  of  English  history,  and  which,  as  it  were,  constituted  the 
final  encounter  between  declining  and  enfeebled  feudalism,  and  the 
rising  and  lusty  spirit  of  the  modern  life.  Among  the  great  events 
that  contributed  to  the  triumph  of  the  latter,  were  the  invention  of 
printing,  the  discovery  of  a  passage  around  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope, 
the  unveiling  of  the  American  continent,  and  the  breaking  out  of 
the  Reformation.  Though  these  events  were  tardy  in  producing 
discernible  effects  in  the  life  and  literature  of  the  English ;  yet,  by 
largely  expandingthe  intellectual  vision, by  augmenting  knowledge, 
by  multiplying  ideas,  by  enlightening  the  conscience  and  calling 
into  action  moral  sentiments,  and  by  promoting  intellectual  and 
social  intercourse,  they  prepared  the  way  for  the  incoming  of  the 
glorious  literary  epoch  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth. 

The  fifteenth  century  may  be  said  to  have  contributed  less,  both 
in  amount  and  value,  to  the  national  literature  than  any  pre- 
vious century  since  the  Norman  conquest.  It  was  rather  a  con- 
servative and  arf  accumulative  era  than  a  productive  one.  It  was, 
pre-eminently,  the  age  of  the  establishment  of  institutions  of 
learning.  Forty  new  universities  are  reckoned  to  have  been 
founded  in  different  parts  of  the  continent;  and  in  England  there 
sprung  up  the  colleges  of  Lincoln,  All  Souls',  Magdalen,  King's, 
and  Queen's;  and  in  Scotland,  those  of  St.  Andrew's  and  Glasgow. 
Within  these  institutions,  toward  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
and  much  more  fully  during  the  sixteenth,  the  study  of  the  classic 
languages  and  literatures  was  inaugurated;  thus  introducing 
among  the  dull  abstractions  of  scholastic  philosophy  and  the  dry 
formularies  of  canon  law  the  enchanting  forms  and  the  poetic  de- 
tails of  pagan  mythology. 

To  the  close  of  this  century  belongs  the  introduction  into  Eng- 

*  To  indicate  approximately  the  boundaries  of  the  successive  linguistic  changes 
that  have  occurred  in  England,  the  following  summary  may  be  of  some  service : 

I.  Anglo-Saxon,  or  First  English,  from  A.  D.  450  to  1066. 

II.  Semi-Saxon,  or  Second  English,  from  A.  D.  1066  to  1250. 

III.  Old  English,  from  A.  D.  1250  to  1350. 

IV.  Middle  English,  from  A.  D.  1350  to  1550. 

V.  Modern  English,  from  A.  D.  1550  to  the  present  lime. 

Old,  Middle,  and  Modern  English  have  also  been  styled  Third  English. 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  27 


land  of  the  printing-press  by  William  Caxton.  The  first  work  of 
this  deft  handmaid  of  literature  was  to  multiply  copies  of  such 
books  as  were  then  in  the  greatest  demand.  These  were  religious 
treatises  and  imported  romances ;  the  reading  public  at  that  time 
being  restricted  to  the  ecclesiastical  and  aristocratical  classes. 
The  successor  of  Caxton  in  the  printing  business  was  Wunken  de 
Worde,  who,  among  his  first  publications,  gave  to  the  public, 
about  1490,  the  earliest  collection  of  Robin  Hood  ballads,  called 
'A  Lytel  Geste  of  Robyn  H.odc:k 

The  best  known  of  the  English  poets  of  the  early  part  of  the 
period  we  are  now  considering  were  Occleve  and  Lydgate.  The 
first  is  supposed  to  have  flourished  about  1420.  His  works,  which 
survive  chiefly  in  manuscript,  indicate  a  very  meager  endowment 
of  poetic  feeling,  are  prevailing  didactic  in  character,  and  are,  to  a 
great  extent,  translations.  Lydgate,  who  attained  his  greatest  fame 
about  1430,  was  a  monk  well  skilled  in  the  language  and  literature, 
not  only  of  England,  but  also  of  Italy  and  France.  He  would  seem 
to  have  followed  rhyming  as  a  trade,  his  verses  being  very  numer- 
ous, and  embracing  a  vast  variety  of  subjects.  Owing  to  the  celeb- 
rity of  his  subjects,  The  Falls  of  Princes,  The  Stone  of  Thebes,  and 
the  Troy  Book,  his  poems  obtained  the  most  considerable  circula- 
tion of  any  of  the  century.  The  first  was  borrowed  from  Boccaccio, 
and  the  other  two  were  adaptations  from  the  classic  narratives  of 
the  middle  ages. 

Scotland's  contribution  to  the  poets  of  the  century  comprised, 
among  others,  Andrew  of  Wynton,  James  I.,  Dunbar,  Douglas, 
Henryson,  Barbour,  and  "  Blind  Harry."  f 

The  prose  writers  of  the  greater  part  of  the  fifteenth  century 

*  Robin  Hood  is  said  to  be  a  corruption  of  the  name  of  Robert  Fitzooth,  reputed 
Earl  of  Huntingdon,  who,  having  squandered  his  patrimony,  and  having  been  out- 
lawed for  debt,  lived  in  the  woods  the  life  of  a  freebooter,  setting  at  defiance  the 
stringent  forest  laws  of  the  Norman  kings.  With  his  hundred  dexterous  archers, 
and  with  his  trusty  friends  Little  John,  William  Scadlock,  George  a  Green  Finder, 
Much,  and  Friar  Tuck,  all  obedient  to  the  magic  summons  of  his  bugle-horn,  Robin 
Hood  impersonated,  in  his  lawless  but  magnanimous  career,  the  unconquerable 
spirit  of  the  Saxon  yeomanry.  The  Ballads  commemorate  the  heroic  deeds  of  these 
foresters  in  a  species  of  verse  inimitable  for  its  simplicity,  its  pathos,  its  ardor,  and 
the  picturesqueness  of  its  descriptions.  The  authors  of  these  ballads  were  uncouth, 
wandering  minstrels,  who,  similarly  to  the  troubadours  or  jongleurs  of  Spain  and 
France,  recited  their  compositions  with  animated  movements  of  the  face  and  body 
in  the  midst  of  a  circle  of  their  countrymen,  who.  with  joined  hands,  imitated  the 
gestures  and  movements  of  the  poet.  Their  varying  movements  to  and  fro,  and  from 
side  to  side,  gave  rise  to  the  name  of  this  sort  of  minstrelsy,  ballare  meaning  to  in- 
cline to  this  side  and  that.  The  ballads  of  The  Battle  of  Otterburn  and  Chevy  Chase 
had  a  Northern,  Scottish,  or  Border  origin ;  but  were  of  the  same  general  poetic 
character  as  those  of  Robin  Hood.  The  delightful  colloquial  ballad  of  The  Nut- 
Brown  Maid  was  composed  about  the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century. 

t  James  I.,  who  was  seized  in  his  youth  by  Henry  IV.,  and  held  as  a  prisoner  in 


28  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

were  neither  numerous  nor  eminent.  The  age  appears  to  have 
been  too  tumultuous  and  too  illiberal  to  foster  the  freedom  of 
opinion  inaugurated  by  Wyclitfe.  Yet  one  writer  of  spirit  arose 
in  the  person  of  Pecock,  who,  in  his  principal  work,  The  Repressor 
of  over-much  Blaming  of  the  Clergy,  written  about  1-150,  while  he  com- 
bated the  extreme  opinions  of  the  followers  of  Wyclifte — the  Lol- 
lards, denied  the  infallibility  of  the  decisions  of  ecumenical  coun- 
cils, maintained  the  supreme  authority  of  the  Bible  in  matters  of 
faith,  and  denounced  religious  dogmas  based  simply  on  the  ipse 
dixit  of  papal  authority.  His  work  is  esteemed  the  ablest  example 
of  philosophical  argumentation  that  had  appeared  up  to  that  time 
in  England,  as  well  as  one  of  the  best  illustrations  of  the  superior 
theological  dialect  of  the  day. 

The  last  quarter  of  the  fifteenth  century,  as  previously  remarked, 
witnessed  the  introduction  of  printing  into  England  by  Caxton. 
Within  the  first  sixteen  years  following  this  event,  some  sixty-seven 
editions  of  works  were  published,  most  of  them  copies  of  English 
writings  of  the  preceding  century.  Of  original  English  works  of 
this  period  there  appears  to  have  been  none. 

The  sixteenth  century,  the  ante-Elizabethan  portion  of  it,  though 
more  productive  of  literary  works  than  its  predecessor,  must  like- 
wise be  characterized  as  a  period  of  acquisition.  It  seemed  to  have 
been  the  effort  of  the  English  mind  in  this  age  to  possess  itself  of 
the  superior  knowledge  and  culture  of  the  peoples  of  the  Continent, 
even  at  the  sacrifice  of  independent  thought.  It  was  this  bent, 

England  for  some  twenty  years,  wrote  a  poem  of  about  fourteen  hundred  lines, 
called  King's  Quair— that  is,  the  king's  book.  This  is  a  rhapsody  on  the  lady 
Joanna  Beaufort,  whom  he  afterward  married,  and  whom  he  first  saw  from  his 
prison  window.  The  style  is  largely  allegorical;  and,  in  smoothness  and  skill  of 
versification,  in  delicacy  of  feeling,  and  in  poetic  merits  generally,  it  is  regarded  as 
the  best  specimen  of  English  verse  that  appeared  prior  to  the  second  half  of  the  six- 
teenth century. 

Dunbar  was  the  author  of  The  Thistle  and  the  Rose,  a  court  poem  in  Chaucer's 
stanza  ;  The  Golden  Terge;  Lament  for  the  Makars,  or  poets,  a  poem  "  warm  with  re- 
ligious feeling  and  a  sense  of  human  fellowship,  speaking  high  thought  in  homely 
prose,  with  a  true  poet's  blending  of  pathos  and  good  humor;"  the  The  Flyting  of 
Dunbar  and  Kennedy,  a  metrical  contention  in  dialogue ;  and  the  Dance  of  the  Seven 
Deadly  Sins,  a  fantastical  allegory.  "  In  The  Thistle  and  the  Rose  and  The  Golden  Terge, 
he  is  gracefully  conventional ;  in  all  his  other  poetry  he  is  himself ;  he  utters  thoughts 
of  his  own,  and  illustrates  the  life  of  his  own  time.  No  poet  from  Chaucer  till  his 
own  time  equaled  Dunbar  in  the  range  of  genius.  He  could  pass  from  broad  jest 
to  a  pathos  truer  for  its  homeliness.  He  had  a  play  of  fancy  reaching  to  the  nobler 
heights  of  thought,  a  delicacy  joined  with  a  terse  vigor  of  expression  in  short  poems 
that  put  the  grace  of  God  into  their  worldly  wisdom." — HENEY  MORLEY. 

Henryson  imitated  Chaucer  in  his  Testament  of  Oresseid,  and  was  author  of  the 
lovely  pastoral  Robene  and  Makyne.  Henry  the  Minstrel,  or  "  Blind  Harry."  as  he 
was  commonly  called,  composed  a  poem  of  l'_>,000  lines  commemorating  the  exploits 
of  William  Wallace.  In  this  poem  there  is  manifest  a  vigor  of  expression  and  rug- 
gedness  of  versification  which,  combined  with  its  independent  spirit  and  its  national 
theme,  mark  it  as  the  most  original  and  Scottish  production  of  the  times. 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  29 

doubtless,  that  carried  it  in  the  pursuit  of  classical  erudition,  par- 
ticularly the  Greek  language  and  literature,  to  a  positively  mis- 
chievous extent.  Further  along,  toward  the  close  of  the  reign  of 
Henry  VIII.,  the  same  acquisitive  impulse  brought  about  an  inti- 
mate acquaintance  with,  and  an  imitation  of  the  literature  of,  the 
great  Italian  poets,  Dante,  Boccaccio,  Ariosto,  and  Petrarch. 

From  the  mental  inertness  and  complacent  literary  servility 
which  threatened  to  follow  this  infatuation  for  foreign  literatures, 
the  century  was  happily  delivered  by  the  electric  thrill  of  the  Ref- 
ormation. This,  while  it  perpetrated  some  wrongs,  set  men  a 
thinking,  challenged  their  best  reasoning  and  criticising  powers, 
and  opened  their  eyes  to  the  necessity  and  surpassing  beauty  of 
holy  living.  The  literary  fruits  of  this  innovating  and  rousing  in- 
fluence were  spirited,  as  well  as  learned,  discussions,  and  whole- 
some, as  well  as  pungent  and  extravagant,  satires. 

To  this  epoch  of  English  literature  belongs  its  first  comedy.  This 
was  Ralph  Roister  Doister,  a  hearty  jest  at  worldly  vanity,  written  by 
Nicholas  Udall.  Masques, —  pantomimic  performances  by  persons  in 
disguise, — and  Interludes, — satirical  dialogues  pronounced  between 
meat  at  the  banquet  for  the  entertainment  of  the  guests, — though 
not  originating  at  this  time,  came  into  more  general  practice  during 
the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  than  during  any  previous  time.  The 
chief  writer  of  Interludes  at  this  time  was  John  Heywood. 

During  the  first  quarter  of  the  sixteenth  century,  we  encounter, 
.imong  its  significant  literary  effects,  Lord  Berners'  Translation  of 
n  c.  Chronicles  of  Froissart.*  It  is  said  to  have  been  executed  at  the 
command  of  Henry  VIII.,  who  hoped  that  the  vivid  and  interesting 
sketches  given  by  the  prince  of  chroniclers,  Froissart,  of  the  chival- 
rous achievements  of  the  Black  Prince,  might  reconcile  his  subjects 
to  the  expenses  of  a  war  with  France,  for  the  recovering  thence  of 
the  ancient  patrimony  of  the  Norman  dynasty  of  England. 

The  most  classical  piece  of  secular  prose  composition  yet  pro- 
duced was  the  Life  of  Richard  III.,  ascribed  to  Sir  Thomas  More. 

*  "  Lord  Berners'  translation  of  Froissart  was  the  first  really  important  work  printed 
in  the  English  language  relating  to  modern  history.  It  was  almost  the  only  acces- 
sible source  of  information  respecting  the  local  history  of  England  and  her  relations 
to  the  Continental  powers  in  the  fourteenth  century  ;  for  though  the  scene  is  for  the 
most  part  laid  in  France  and  Spain,  yet  it  contains  a  pretty  full  account  of  the  wars 
of  Edward  III.  with  the  Scots,  and  of  the  insurrectionary  movements  in  the  time  of 
Richard  II. ;  and,  moreover,  England  was  a  direct  party  to  almost  every  event  which 
it  narrates  as  belonging  more  immediately  to  the  domestic  history  of  France  or  of 
Spain.  It  must,  therefore,  independently  of  its  philological  worth,  be  considered  as 
a  work  of  great  importance  in  English  literary  history,  because  it  undoubtedly  con- 
cributed  essentially  to  give  direction  to  literary  pursuits  in  England,  and  thus  to  lay 
'he  foundation  of  an  entire  and  very  prominent  branch  of  native  literature." — The 
hnglish  Language  and  Us  Early  Literature. — MARSH. 


30  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Aside  from  the  historical  value  of  the  work,  its  author  succeeded 
in  investing  it  with  a  purity  of  diction  and  grammatical  regularity 
hitherto  attained  only  in  theological  writings.  But  the  work  by 
which  this  learned  and  good  man  was  best  known  was  his  Utopia. 
This  is  a  fiction, — originally  written  (1515)  in  Latin,  but  afterward 
(in  1551)  translated  into  English, — wherein  the  author  attempts, 
after  tne  manner  of  Plato,  to  picture  an  ideal  republic,  whose  laws 
and  regulations,  both  social  and  political,  are  philosophically  per- 
fect-. His  religious  controversial  writings  were  very  generally 
marred,  both  in  phraseology  and  thought,  by  the  bitterness  and 
violence  of  his  sectarian  zeal. 

Tyndale's  translation  of  the  New  Testament,  executed  with  un- 
common accuracy,  as  well  as  with  vigor,  purity,  and  eloquence  of 
style,  appeared  in  1526.  Of  the  writings  of  the  great  leaders  of 
the  English  Reformation, — Cranmer,  Ridley,  and  Latimer, — those 
of  Latimer  are  most  worthy  of  attention  for  the  simplicity  and 
familiarity  both  of  the  language  employed  and  the  topics  consid- 
ered; these  being  such  as  were  daily  in  use  among  the  common 
people.  As  exponents,  therefore,  of  the  state  of  the  spoken  lan- 
guage and  of  the  actual  life  of  his  times,  they  are  invaluable. 

As  a  writer  in  whose  correct  and  graceful  style  were  exhibited 
the  legitimate  effects  of  classical  culture,  we  may  instance  Sir 
John  Cheke,  professor  of  Greek  in  the  University  of  Cambridge, 
and  author  of  the  Hurt  of  Sedition.  Last  of  the  noteworthy  prose 
writers  of  this  epoch  we  may  name  Roger  Ascham,  author  of 
Toxophilus.  His  aim  in  this  work  was  to  recommend  to  English- 
men the  use  of  their  old  national  weapon,  the  bow;  and  at  the 
same  time  he  would,  by  his  own  example,  recommend  a  recur- 
rence to  a  pure  style  and  a  more  vernacular  diction  in  writing. 
He  also  wrote  a  treatise  on  teaching,  entitled  the  Schoolmaster. 

The  Poets  figuring  most  prominently  in  this  epoch  were  Skel- 
ton,  Hawes,  Surrey,  Wyatt,  and  Lyndsay, — all  of  whom  flourished 
in  the  reigns  of  Henry  VII.  and  Henry  VIII. 

John  Skelton  (1460-1529),  author  of  the  Booke  of  Colin  Clout, 
Mln/  Come  ye  not  to  Court,  and  the  Bouge  of  Court,  WHS  esteemed  by 
Erasmus  as  "  the  light  and  ornament  of  English  letters."  His  Eng- 
lish writings  consisted  largely  of  satires  upon  popular  abuses,  sev- 
eral of  them  being  directed  against  Cardinal  Wolsey.  In  these 
poems  Skelton  proves  himself  a  master  of  ribaldry  and  coarse  in- 
vective. "  Even  in  the  most  reckless  of  these  compositions,  how- 
ever, he  rattles  along,  through  serise  and  nonsense,  with  a  vivacity 
that  had  been  a  stranger  to  our  poetry  for  many  a  weary  day;  and 
his  freedom  and  spirit,  even  where  most  unrefined,  must  have  been 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  31 

exhilarating  after  the  long  fit  of  somnolency  in  which  the  English 
muse  had  dozed  away  the  last  hundred  years.  But  much  even 
of  Skelton's  satiric  verse  is  instinct  with  genuine  poetic  vigor,  and 
a  fancy  alert,  sparkling,  and  various  to  a  wonderful  degree."*  His 
non-satirical  poetry  is  quite  destitute  of  invention,  and  is  insuf- 
ferably tame  and  pedantic. 

Stephen  Hawes,  the  principal  poet  of  the  reign  of  Henry  VII., 
was  author  of  several  poems,  the  chief  of  which  was  the  allegory, 
TJie  Pastime  of  Pleasure.  He  was  a  scholarly  man ;  was  well  versed 
in  the  poetry  of  England,  France,  and  Italy,  and  was  a  great  ad- 
mirer as  well  as  imitator  of  Lydgate ;  but  was  possessed  of  very 
little  poetic  individuality. 

Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey,  was  born  about  1517,  and  is  ac- 
credited as  being  the  first  English  writer  who  employed  blank  verse. 
The  subject  of  his  experiment  was  the  second  and  fourth  books 
of  the  '"^Eneid,"  which  he  translated  into  ten-syllabled  lines  of  me- 
ter without  rhyme,  after  a  new  fashion  in  Italian  literature.  His 
original  works,  of  a  secular  character,  were  a  Satire  against  the  Cit- 
izens of  London,  and  Sonnets,  and  love-poems  imitative  of  the  erotic 
class  of  Italian  poetry ;  also,  of  a  religious  sort,  Paraphrases  of  the 
first  five  chapters  of  Ecclesiastes,  and  several  Psalms. 

That  species  of  metrical  composition  called  the  Sonnet  was  intro- 
duced into  English  literature  by  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  the  elder 
(1503-1542).  His  poetry  comprised  songs,  sonnets,  ballads,  ron- 
deaux,  and  complaints,  delicate  and  varied  in  melody,  that  closely 
resembled  the  class  of  poems  then  fashionable  in  Italy  and  France.f 

The  Age  of  Elisabeth  and  James  I.—  The  age  of  Feudalism 
had  now  passed  away.  The  gloomy  castles  and  battlemented 
fortresses,  with  their  garrisons  of  mailed  and  helmeted  warriors, 
had  become  converted  into  cheerful  and  ornate  palaces,  of  Gothic 
and  Italian  styles  of  architecture,  filled  with  magnificently  cos- 
tumed and  decorously  behaving  gentlemen  and  ladies.  The  cheer- 
ful industries  of  peace  had  pushed  aside  the  grim  employments 
of  war,  and  men  found  opportunity  and  inducement  for  cultivat- 
ing the  nobler  parts  of  their  natures.  With  security  of  life  and 
property,  and  freedom  of  action,  came  a  desire  to  enjoy  life,  and 
to  multiply  its  comforts  and  delights.  The  senses,  which  meager 

*  Literature  and  Learning  in  England. — CRAIK. 

t  Of  the  Scottish  poets  of  the  sixteenth  century,  Sir  David  Lyndsay,  born  in  1490, 
merits  a  special  mention.  His  works  are  quite  numerous.  The  most  important  of 
them  are  The  Dream,  The  Complaint.  The  Testament  of  the  Popingo,  or  Popinjay,  A  Satire 
of  the  Three  Estates — a  morality  play,  and  his  last  longest,  and  gravest.—  The  Mon- 
archic. He  was  emphatically  the  satirist  and  social  reformer  of  his  age.  and  his 
poetry  is  remarkable  for  a  vigor  of  tone  and  a  fertility  of  invention. 


32  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


living,  the  devastations  of  war,  and  the  asceticism  of  a  gloomy  and 
bigoted  religion,  had  hitherto  robbed  of  their  natural  aliment,  now 
that  the  obstacles  were  removed,  sprang  forward  with  irrepressible 
greed.  The  eye  must  be  dazzled,  the  ear  tickled,  and  the  senses 
generally  intoxicated.  Accordingly,  we  see,  at  this  time,  an  ex- 
traordinary display  of  tournaments,  masquerades,  banquets,  theatri- 
cal and  operatic  entertainments,  rustic  fetes  and  pageants  of  every 
description. 

This  sudden  and  universal  lust  for  the  sensuous  had  its  rise  in 
the  pagan  influence  which,  originating  in  revived  Italy,  had  spread 
successively  through  France,  Spain,  and  Germany.  The  introduc- 
tion of  classic  literature  into  England — to  which  reference  has 
been  already  made— prepared  the  minds  of  the  people  for  a  re- 
ception of  the  ideas  of  the  beautiful,  the  sensuous,  and  the  natural, 
which  the  literature  of  such  writers  as  Surrey  and  Wyatt, —  the 
masques  and  interludes, — and  the  increased  intercourse  of  the  Eng- 
lish at  this  time  with  the  people  of  the  south  of  Europe,  readily 
transformed  into  splendid  realities. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  this  new,  vigorous,  merry,  and  natu- 
ralistic life  of  the  people  must  impress  its  distinctive  features  upon 
the  literature  of  the  epoch  ;  and  accordingly  we  find  it  characterized 
by  an  originality  and  boldness  of  conception,  a  fecundity  and  irregu- 
larity of  imagination,  and  a  picturesqueness  of  expression,  unparal- 
leled in  the  history  of  any  literature. 

As  one  of  the  most  striking  types  of  the  luxuriance  and  freedom 
of  spirit  of  the  literature  of  this  epoch,  we  may  cite  the  writings 
of  Sir  Philip  Sidney  (1554-1580),  a  great  lord,  a  man  of  liberal  cul- 
ture, an  extensive  traveler,  a  courtier,  a  man  of  the  world,  and  a 
gallant  officer.  His  principal  work  was  The  Arcadia,  a  sort  of 
poetical  romance,  which  depicts  the  external  life,  the  elegant  man- 
ners, and  excessive  sentiments  of  polite  society  of  his  times.  It 
abounds,  too,  in  romantic  tales,  tragical  incidents,  and  fantastic 
episodes,  suggested  by,  and,  in  a  measure,  descriptive  of  the  court 
festivals  and  rustic  merry-makings  of  the  age.  His  Defense,  of  Poesie 
is  of  a  more  serious  and  elevated  character.  "  In  his  eyes,"  says 
Taine,  "  if  there  is  any  art  or  science  capable  of  augmenting  and 
cultivating  our  generosity,  it  is  poetry.  He  draws  comparison 
after  comparison  between  it  and  philosophy  or  history,  whose  pre- 
tensions he  laughs  at  and  dismisses.  He  fights  for  poetry  as  a 
knight  for  his  lady,  and  in  what  heroic  and  splendid  style !  " 

Besides  the  above  works,  he  wrote  a  number  of  refined  Sonnets. 

The  bright  particular  star,  however,  of  the  literary  dawn  we  are 
now  viewing,  was  Edmund  Spenser  (1553-1099) ;  for  a  detailed 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  33 

account  of  whose  life  and  writings  the  reader  is  referred  to  a  sepa- 
rate chapter  in  the  latter  part  of  this  volume.* 

The  Prose  "Writing-  of  this  epoch  was  not  less  voluminous  nor 
less  remarkable  than  the  poetry.  An  abundance  of  ideas  and  fan- 
cies, uttered  in  the  order,  or  rather  disorder,  of  their  occurrence  ; 
a  profusely  ornamented  and  intensely  figurative,  though  not  a  pol- 
ished, style ;  earnest,  solid,  and  learned  arguments,  expressed  in 
elaborate  and  stately  periods;  .much  coarseness  and  little  delicacy; 
much  substance  and  little  grace  of  form, — these  were  the  mascu- 
line features  of  this  first  eminent  English  prose.  And  was  it  not 
natural  that,  in  an  age  surcharged  as  was  this  with  great  events, 
its  describers  should  be  busied  rather  with  the  matter  of  thought 
and  with  ideas  than  with  the  punctilios  of  style? 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh  (1552-1618),  the  eminent  soldier,  courtier, 
navigator,  and  scholar,  occupies  a  prominent  place  among  the 
prose  writers  of  his  day.  To  relieve  the  tedium  and  melancholy 
of  a  long  imprisonment,  he  boldly  essayed  to  write  a  History  of  the 
World;  but  was  successful  in  carrying  the  narrative  only  as  far  as 
the  year  170  B.  c.  The  work  is  largely  didactic,  abounds  in  grand 
thoughts  and  eloquent  periods ;  and,  considering  the  circumstances 
and  the  time  of  the  author,  is  an  extraordinary  production.! 

On  Theology,  the  epoch  furnishes  the  names  of  such  writers  as 
Jewel,  Bishop  of  Salisbury ;  Richard  Hooker,  author  of  Ecclesias- 

*As  flourishing  in  the  same  epoch  with  the  foregoing  poets,  but  of  vastly  minor 
importance,  we  may  name  George  Gascoigne,  author  of  Steel  Glass;  Thomas  Sack- 
ville,  projector  and  part  author  of  A  Mirrourfor  Magistrates;  Samuel  Daniel,  whose 
chief  work,  The  History  of  the  Civil  Wars,  is  a  versified  narrative  of  the  wars  between  the 
houses  of  York  and  Lancaster ;  Michael  Drayton,  author  of  Polyolbion,  a  descriptive, 
legendary,  and  allegorical  poem  in  thirty  cantos,  The  Barons'  Wars,  The  Muses'  Ely- 
sium, and  several  others ;  John  Donne,  writer  of  amatory  verses,  epigrams,  epistles, 
and  particularly  satires ;  and  Joseph  Hall,  whose  Virgidemiarum  entitles  him  to  be 
considered  the  founder  of  satire.  Of  other  poets  who  flourished  during  the  reigns  of 
Elizabeth  and  James  I.,  we  may  name  Turbervile,  Davies,  the  Fletchers,  Southwell, 
Churchyard,  Edwards,  Warner,  Chapman,  Lord  Brooke,  Fairfax ;  and  of  the  Scottish 
poets  of  the  same  interval,  William  Drummond  and  the  Earl  of  Stirling. 

t  Among  the  other  historical  writers  of  this  epoch,  we  may  name  Raphael  Hollins- 
hed,  author  of  the  chronicles  and  historical  descriptions  which  afterward  afforded 
Shakespeare  so  rich  a  mine  of  materials  for  the  composition  of  several  of  his  semi- 
historical  and  semi-traditional  plays ;  William  Camden,  author  of  Britannia— & 
work  on  the  topography  and  history  of  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland,  Reliquiae 
Britannica—&  treatise  on  the  first  inhabitants  of  Britain,  and  Annals  of  England 
during  the  Reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth ;  John  Speed,  whose  Historic  of  Great  Britain 
evinced  a  discrimination  on  the  part  of  its  author  in  the  selection  of  his  facts 
wholly  unprecedented  in  the  historical  writings  of  the  day ;  Foxe.  author  of  the 
plainly  and  vigorously  executed  Book  of  Martyrs— &  work  which  exerted  a  powerful 
influence  in  weakening  the  hold  of  Catholicism  in  England;  and  Samuel  Daniel, 
already  named  among  the  poets,  who  published  a  History  of  England  from  the  Con- 
quest to  the  Reign  of  Edward  III.—  a  work  lacking  in  vigor  of  treatment,  but  abound- 
ing in  good  sense,  and,  according  to  Hallam,  "  written  with  a  freedom  from  all  stiff- 
ness, and  a  purity  of  style,  which  hardly  any  other  work  of  so  early  a  date  exhibits." 

C 


34  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

tical  Polity, — a  memorable  defense  of  the  laws,  rites,  and  cere- 
monies of  the  Established  Church;  Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury, 
who,  by  his  work,  De  Veritate,  achieved  the  notoriety  of  being  one 
of  the  earliest  and  ablest  advocates  of  deism  in  England ;  Bishop 
Andrewes,  and  others  of  less  note. 

The  Philosophy  of  the  epoch  is  represented,  in  its  metaphysi- 
cal, moral,  and  political  aspects,  by  the  writings  of  Thomas  Hobbes 
(1588-1679),  and  in  its  practical  and  physical  aspects,  by  the  works 
of  Lord  Bacon. 

Hobbes,  a  man  of  profound  learning  and  of  remarkable  mental 
activity,  wrote  Leviathan, — an  argument  upholding  the  principles 
of  monarchical  governments,  a  Treatise  on  Human  Nature,  and  a 
Letter  on  Liberty  and  Necessity.  As  a  metaphysician,  he  believed 
that  all  our  knowledge  was  purely  sensuous,  and  that,  therefore, 
matter  was  the  only  reality  in  the  universe ;  as  a  moral  philoso- 
pher, he  confounded  the  moral  principles  of  good  and  evil  with 
the  physical  sensations  of  pleasure  and  pain,  thus  making  man 
the  helpless  victim  of  necessity ;  and  as  a  political  economist,  he 
justified,  upon  the  ground  of  expediency  alone,  the  maintenance 
of  an  absolute  monarchy.  As  a  writer,  he  was  pre-eminent  for 
closeness,  lucidity,  and  cogency  of  argument,  combined  with  clear- 
ness of  style. 

The  great  intellectual  father,  however,  of  Hobbes,  indeed,  the 
father  of  philosophy  itself,  in  England,  was  Lord  Bacon.  Further 
along  a  separate  chapter  will  be  devoted  to  a  consideration  of  the 
merits  of  this  illustrious  thinker  and  litterateur.  Literary  eccen- 
tricity in  the  person  and  writings  of  Robert  Burton*  (1576-1640), 
author  of  the  celebrated  treatise,  the  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  de- 
serves a  mention. 

*" Robert  Burton,  an  ecclesiastic  and  university  recluse,  who  passed  his  life  in 
libraries,  and  dabbled  in  all  the  sciences,  as  learned  as  Rabelais,  of  an  inexhausti- 
ble and  overflowing  memory ;  unequal,  moreover,  gifted  with  enthusiasm,  and  spas- 
modically gay,  but  as  a  rule  sad  and  morose,  to  the  extent  of  confessing  in  his 
epitaph  that  melancholy  made  up  his  life  and  his  death.  In  the  first  place  original, 
enamored  of  his  own  intelligence,  and  one  of  the  earliest  models  of  that  singular 
English  mood  which,  withdrawing  man  within  himself,  develops  in  him  at  one  time 
imagination,  at  another  scrupulousness,  at  another  oddity,  and  makes  of  him, 
according  to  circumstances,  a  poet,  an  eccentric,  a  humorist,  a  madman,  or  a  puri- 
tan. He  read  on  for  thirty  years,  put  an  encyclopaedia  into  his  head,  and  now,  to 
amuse  and  relieve  himself,  takes  a  folio  of  blank  paper.  Twenty  lines  of  a  poet,  a 
dozen  lines  of  a  treatise  on  agriculture,  a  folio  column  of  heraldry,  the  patience,  the 
record  of  the  fever  fits  of  hypochondria,  the  history  of  the  particle  que,  a  scrap  of 
metaphysics, — this  is  what  passes  through  his  brain  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour:  it  is  a 
carnival  of  ideas  and  phrases,  Greek,  Latin,  German,  French,  Italian,  philosophical, 
geometrical,  medical,  poetical,  astrological,  musical,  pedagogic,  heaped  one  on  the 
other,  an  enormous  medley,  a  prodigious  mass  of  jumbled  quotations,  jostling 
thoughts,  with  the  vivacity  and  the  transport  of  a  feast  of  unreason."—  Taine's  Eng- 
lish Literature. 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  35 

The  Drama. — Of  all  the  giant  growths  that  characterized  the 
Elizabethan  epoch,  that  of  the  drama  was  the  most  extraordinary. 
"Forty  poets,  amongst  them  ten  of  superior  rank,  and  the  greatest 
of  all  artists  [Shakespeare]  who  have  represented  the  soul  in 
words;  many  hundreds  of  pieces,  and  nearly  fifty  masterpieces; 
the  drama  extended  over  all  the  provinces  of  history,  imagination, 
and  fancy, — expanded  so  as  to  embrace  comedy,  tragedy,  pastoral, 
and  fanciful  literature — to  represent  all  degrees  of  human  con- 
dition, and  all  the  caprices  of  human  invention — to  express  all  the 
sensitive  details  of  actual  truth,  and  all  the  philosophic  grandeur 
of  general  reflection  ;  the  stage,  disencumbered  of  all  precept  and 
freed  from  all  imitation,  given  up  and  appropriated  in  the  mi- 
nutest particulars  to  the  reigning  taste  and  the  public  intelligence 
— all  this  was  a  vast  and  manifold  work,  capable  by  its  flexibility, 
its  greatness,  and  its  form,  of  receiving  and  preserving  the  exact 
imprint  of  the  age  and  of  the  nation."* 

Let  us  trace,  of  necessity  very  briefly,  the  processes  of  growth 
involved  in  this  most  splendid  of  literary  developments.  Its  ori- 
gin is  to  be  sought  for  as  far  back,  perhaps,  as  the  epoch  immedi- 
ately succeeding  the  Norman  Conquest,  in  the  crude  attempts 
then  made  at  setting  forth  in  dramatic  form  legends  of  the  lives 
of  the  saints  and  striking  incidents  of  Bible  history.  These  repre- 
sentations, called  Miracle  Plays,  or  Mysteries,  and  which  were 
common  in  Spain,  Germany,  Italy,  and  France,  were  composed  and 
acted  by  ecclesiastics.  The  churches  served  for  theatres,  and  the 
temporarily  erected  stages  answered  for  heaven,  earth,  and  hell, 
whereon  monks  or  priests  and  their  assistants  figured  as  imper- 
sonators of  the  Godhead,  angels,  saints,  martyrs,  and  devils. 

The  above  species  of  dramatic  representation  continued  in  vogue 
until  about  the  beginning  of  the  fifteenth  century,  when  the  spread 
of  that  learning  which  hitherto  had  been  the  monopoly  of  ecclesi- 
astics among  the  upper  and  middle  classes  of  society,  called  into 
being  a  less  exclusively  religious  sort  of  play  known  as  The  Morali- 
ties. In  this,  abstract  or  allegorical  characters,  such  as  Youth,  Ke- 
pentance,  Avarice,  Luxury,  Pride,  Vice,  etc..  constituted  the  dram- 
atis persons  of  the  play,  in  place  of,  as  formerly,  the  Deity,  and  the 
Devil  with  their  attendant  spirits,  and  the  Patriarchs  and  Saints. 
Bishop  Bale  was  a  prolific  inventor  of  these  Moralities. 

The  next  step  toward  a  secularization  of  these  representations 
was  realized  in  the  production  of  Interludes,  in  which  work  John 
Heywood,  a  writer  of  the  time  of  Henry  VIII.,  took  an  active  part. 
These  were  a  shorter,  more  humorous,  and  less  didactic  sort  of 
composition  than  the  Moralities  ;  in  many  instances  being  made  to 

*  Tome's  English  Literature. 


36  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

answer  the  purpose  of  entertainment  wholly,  as  when  introduced 
at  the  banquets  and  festivals  of  those  times.  Then  the  intro- 
duction and  spread  of  classical  literature  among  the  intelligent 
ranks  of  society  during  the  latter  part  of  the  fifteenth  and  a  greater 
part  of  the  sixteenth  centuries  not  only  further  secularized  these 
dramatic  representations,  but,  indeed,  paganized  them  to  a  very 
considerable  extent,  driving  out  the  chaste  Virtues  from  among 
the  dramatis  persona?,  and  installing  in  their  places  the  voluptuous 
Gods,  Goddesses,  Muses,  and  Cupids  of  the  ancient  world. 

One  step  more, — the  substitution  of  the  incidents  and  persons 
of  real,  every-day  life,  and  of  the  events  and  personages  of  history, 
for  the  fictions  of  ideal,  allegorical,  and  grotesque  invention,  brings 
us  to  the  production  of  legitimate  drama.  The  earliest  known 
^specimen  of  this  sort  of  composition  was  Gorboduc,  or  Ferrex  and 
Porrex, — a  tragedy  in  blank  verse,  written  jointly  by  Thomas  Sack- 
ville  and  Thomas  Norton.  The  incidents  of  this  play-are  borrowed 
from  the  fabulous  British  annals,  but  its  treatment  is  in  imitation 
of  the  Greek  tragedians. 

The  old  play  of  Kynge  Johan,  composed  by  John  Bale  (1495- 
1563),  holds  a  place  intermediate  between  the  Moralities  and  the 
purely  historical  plays.  As  representing  the  whims  and  amusing 
weaknesses  of  humanity,  in  that  variety  of  writing  called  Comedy, 
Ralph  Roister  Doister,  written  between  the  years  1534  and  1541  by 
Nicholas  Udall,  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  earliest  example. 

These  early  dramatic  compositions  were  acted  by  amateurs,  who. 
were,  to  some  extent,  the  servants  of  sovereigns  and  the  nobles,  and 
who,  under  the  supervision  of  one  called  Officer  of  the  Revels, 
wandered  from  place  to  place,  giving  their  representations,  now  at 
court,  now  in  the  mansions  of  lords  or  rural  grandees,  sometimes 
in  town-  or  college-halls,  and  sometimes  in  the  courtyards  of  inns. 
Ere  the  lapse  of  the  sixteenth  century,  however,  these  wandering 
bands  of  indifferent  actors  and  singers  had  given  place  to  pro- 
fessional performers,  and  the  temporary  stage  was  exchanged  for 
the  permanent  theatre.  The  best  known  of  the  London  theatres 
of  this  date  were  the  Globe  and  the  Blackfriars.  But  these  play- 
houses and  their  successors  for  many  years  were  sadly  deficient  in 
those  architectural  and  scenic  appointments  which  render  theatres 
of  the  present  day  so  admirable  for  producing  the  illusions  neces- 
sary for  the  vivid  realization  of  a  play. 

Of  the  writers  who  furnished  plays  for  the  early  theatres,  the 
principal  ones  immediately  preceding  Shakespeare  were  Lyly, 
author  of  Endymion,  Sappho  and  Phaon,  and  several  others ;  Kyd, 
author  of  Hieronymo,  the  Spanish  Tragedy;  Peele,  author  of  David 
and  Bethsabe,  Absalom,  and  Edward  J. ;  Nash,  Greene,  and  Chris- 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  37 

topher  Marlowe.*  The  last  was  by  all  odds  the  most  gifted  of  the 
playwrights  just  named. 

The  play  which. first  brought  Marlowe  into  notice  was  Tambur- 
laine  the  Great,  which  has  been  laconically  defined  as  "  rant  glori- 
fied." His  next  and  greatest  work  was  The  Tragical  History  of 
Doctor  Faustus,  whose  hero  was  the  same  marvelous  necromancer, 
astrologer,  and  magician,  that  Goethe,  in  more  modern  times,  im- 
mortalized in  his  "Faust."  Marlowe  attained  in  this  play  the 
highest  point  yet  reached  in  the  drama  of  the  epoch.  His  remain- 
ing plays  were  the  Jew  of  Malta  and  Edward  II.  In  these  works 
their  author  is  generally  allowed  to  have  established  blank  verse 
as  the  measure  for  English  dramatic  poetry,  and  to  have  largely 
promoted  its  employment. 

All  the  foregoing  dramatists  were  intimate  friends  and  brother 
wits ;  and  being  well  educated,  and  not  a  little  vain  of  the  renown 
acquired  by  their  plays,  regarded  with  no  small  nor  delicately  ex- 
pressed contempt  the  arrival  in  their  midst  of  an  obscure  and 
illiterate  actor  and  patcher  of  plays,  named  William  Shakespeare. f 

Chief  of  the  contemporaneous,  but,  as  compared  with  Shake- 
speare, secondary  dramatists  of  this  epoch,  were  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  Massinger,  Ford,  Webster,  Middleton,  Chapman,  Dekker, 
Shirley,  and  Heywood.J 

*  "  Marlowe  is  a  name  that  stands  high,  and  almost  first,  in  this  list  of  dramatic 
worthies.  He  was  a  little  before  Shakespeare's  time,  and  has  a  marked  character 
both  from  him  and  the  rest.  There  is  a  lust  of  power  in  his  writings,  a  hunger  and 
thirst  after  unrighteousness,  a  glow  of  the  imagination,  unhallowed  by  anything  but 
its  own  energies.  His  thoughts  burn  within  him  like  a  furnace  with  bickering 
flames,  or  throwing  out  black  smoke  and  mists  that  hide  the  dawn  of  genius,  or  like 
a  poisonous  mineral,  corrode  the  heart." — HAZLIIT. 

f  See  specia^  chapters  on  Shakespeare  and  Jonson. 

t  The  first  two,  so  intimately  interwoven  were  their  labors,  are  invariably  named 
together.  The  following  plays  may  be  cited  as  some  of  the  products  of  their 
joint  authorship :  Philaster,  The  Maid's  Tragedy,  A  King  and  no  King,  The  Knight  of  the 
Burning  Pestle,  Cupid' s  Revenge,  The  Scornful  Lady,  and  The  Laws  of  Candy.  "  Tradi- 
tion, dating  from  their  own  time,  gave  pre-eminence  to  Fletcher  for  luxuriance  of 
fancy  and  invention,  and  to  Beaumont  for  critical  judgment,  to  which  it  was  said 
that  even  Ben  Jonson  submitted  his  writings.  The  wit  and  poetry  of  these  plays 
were  spent  chiefly  on  themes  of  love.  Their  authors,  capable  of  higher  flights,  so 
far  accommodated  their  good  work  to  the  lower  tone  of  the  playhouse  as  to  earn 
praise  for  having  '  understood  and  imitated  much  better  than  Shakespeare  the  con- 
versation of  gentlemen  whose  wild  debaucheries  and  quickness  of  wit  in  repartee 
no  poet  can  ever  paint  as  they  have  done.  Humor,  which  Ben  Jonson  derived 
from  particular  persons,  they  made  it  not  their  business  to  describe ;  they  represented 
all  the  passions  very  lively.' "— MORLEY. 

Philip  Massinger  (1584-1640),  a  man  of  gentle  extraction  and  of  a  liberal  education, 
wrote  a  number  of  plays,  characterized  by  a  dignity  of  moral  sentiment,  an  elegance 
and  harmony  of  expression,  and  a  fondness  for  classical  allusion,  but  lacking  in 
unity  and  naturalness  of  plot.  Of  the  less  than  a  score  that  remain  to  us  the  finest 
are  The  Virgin  Martyr,  The  Duke  of  Milan,  Bondman,  and  A  New  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts, 
the  last  still  keeping  possession  of  the  stage. 


38  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Epoch  of  the  Civil  War  and  Commonwealth.— The  po- 
litical degeneracy,  in  comparison  with  the  robust  character  of 
the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  that  ensued  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
reign  of  James  I.,  and  during  the  whole  of  that  of  Charles  I.,  was 
concomitant  with  the  literary  declension  that,  in  the  early  part  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  succeeded  the  unparalleled  brilliancy  of 
the  preceding  literary  epoch, — the  epoch  of  Spenser,  Shakespeare, 
Jonson,  and  their  worthy  contemporaries.  Perhaps  this  literary 
declension  was  not  directly  superinduced  by  the  prevailing  and 
growing  political  and  social  corruption ;  but,  certain  it  is,  it  was 
concurrent  with  it;  and  at  the  same  time  that  the  healthy  and 
abundant  juices  of  national  power,  dignity,  and  respectability 
escaped  from  the  body  politic,  the  sinuous,  lusty,  sensuous,  and 
beautiful  presence  disappeared  from  the  literature. 

"  With  Carew,  Suckling,  and  Herrick,  prettiness  takes  the  place 
of  the  beautiful.  They  are  rather  wits  of  the  court,  cavaliers  of 
fashion,  who  wish  to  try  their  hand  at  imagination  and  style.  In 
their  hands  love  becomes  gallantry  ;  they  write  songs,  fugitive 
pieces,  compliments  to  the  ladies.  The  divine  faces,  the  serious 
or  profound  looks,  the  virgin  or  impassioned  expression  which 
burst  forth  at  every  step  in  the  early  poets,  have  disappeared; 
here  we  see  nothing  but  agreeable  countenances  painted  in  agree- 
able verses.  The  only  objects  they  can  paint,  at  last,  are  little 
graceful  things, — a  kiss,  a  May-day  festivity,  a  dewy  primrose,  a 
marriage  morning,  a  bee.  Instead  of  writing  to  say  things,  they 
/  write  to  say  them  well ;  they  outbid  their  neighbors,  and  strain 
every  mode  of  speech ;  they  push  art  over  on  the  side  to  which 
it  had  a  leaning;  and,  as  in  this  age  it  had  a  leaning  towards 
vehemence  and  imagination,  they  pile  up  their  emphasis  and 
coloring."* 

The  group  of  poets  just  described  comprises  Cowley,  Quales, 
Wither,  Herrick,  Waller,  Cleveland,  Lovelace,  Suckling,  Herbert, 
Crashaw,  Davenant,  Carew,  and  Denham.  Our  purpose  to  avoid 

John  Ford  (1586-1639)  was  author  of  the  Witch  of  Edmonton,  the  Broken  Heart, 
Brother  and  Sister,  and  a  number  of  other  plays,  all  evincing  large  dramatic  ability 
for  depicting  the  vicissitudes  of  human  love  and  passion.  "An  artificial  elaborate- 
ness is  the  general  characteristic  of  Ford's  style.  In  this  respect  his  plays  are  quite 
distinct  from  the  exuberance  and  unstudied  force  which  characterized  his  imme- 
diate predecessors.  There  is  too  much  of  scholastic  subtlety,  an  innate  perversity  of 
understanding,  a  predominance  of  will,  which  either  seeks  the  imitation  of  inad- 
missible subjects,  or  to  stimulate  its  own  faculties  by  taking  the  most  barren,  and 
making  something  out  of  nothing,  in  a  spirit  of  contradiction."— HAZLITT. 

"  No  one  has  equaled  Webster  in  creating  desperate  characters,  utter  wretches, 
bitter  misanthropes,  in  blackening  and  blaspheming  human  life ;  above  all,  in  de- 
picting the  shameless  depravity  and  refined  ferocity  of  Italian  manners."— TAINE. 
Chief  among  his  tragedies  are  The  White  Devil  and  The  Duchess  of  Malfi. 

*  Taine's  English  Literature. 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  39 

detail  respecting  minor  writers  allows  us  to  speak  at  length  of  but 
one  of  these — the  first. 

Abraham  Cowley  (1618-1667)  wrote  the  Mistress, — a  .collection  of 
love-poems,  a  number  of  Pindaric  Odes,  a  fragmentary  epic  called 
Davideis,  Essays  in  Verse  and  Prose,  and,  between  the  ages  of  ten 
and  twenty  years,  several  plays.  Precocious,  well-instructed,  par- 
licularly  in  classical  lore,  of  an  amiable  disposition  and  polished 
manners,  correct  and  studious  in  his  habits,  he  imbibed,  and  then 
exhibited,  the  finical  and  fastidious  literary  tastes  of  his  age  in  so 
marked  a  manner,  as  to  have  attained  an  unprecedented  popu- 
larity. The  indifference,  however,  with  which  his  poetry  is  now 
regarded  is  quite  as  unprecedented.  The  explanation  of  this  re- 
markable literary  decline  is  patent.  Cowley  wrote,  not  what  he 
felt,  not  what  he  had  experienced,  but  what  he  had  read  about, 
and  what  he  fancied.  He  wrote,  not  to  give  utterance,  in  a  natural 
manner,  to  ideas  and  fervors  that  demanded  expression,  but  to 
show  how  formally  and  prettily  he  could  phrase  ordinary  and 
fashionable  conceits.  As  Taine  remarks,  "He  possesses  all  the 
capacity  to  say  whatever  pleases  him,  but  he  has  just  nothing  to 
say."  He  was  a  most  accomplished  poetical  craftsman,  full  of 
ingenious  allusions  and  sparkling  fancies;  but  a  poet — a  revealer 
of  human  hearts  and  lives,  or  an  interpreter  of  Nature — he  was  in 
no  sense.  Even  his  love  poems  bear  the  evidence  of  having  been 
composed  as  metrical  exercises,  his  imagination  rather  than  his 
heart  supplying  their  weak  inspiration.  His  Davideis,  which  was 
begun  for  a  great  Scriptural  epic,  and  abandoned  after  the  fourth 
canto,  is  proof  that  even  for  the  display  of  those  powers  of  fancy 
and  elevation  of  moral  tone  that  mark  some  of  his  minor  pieces, 
he  possessed  no  sustained  power.  Cowley  met,  however,  the  re- 
quirement of  his  age, — euphuistic  verse-making,  and  was  there- 
fore esteemed  great. 

In  point  of  merit  immeasurable  apart  from  the  foregoing  poets 
of  this  epoch,  indeed,  as  constituting  an  epoch  of  his  own,  arose, 
at  this  time,  the  grandest  creator  of  imaginative  and  sublime 
poetry  the  world  has  ever  produced,  John  Milton,  who  in  the  latter 
part  of  this  work  shall  claim  an  extended  notice. 

The  principal  prose  -writers  of  this  revolutionary  epoch  pos- 
sessing a  peculiarly  literary  interest  were  Sir  Thomas  Browne  and 
Jeremy  Taylor.  The  first,  whose  works  are  of  a  very  miscellaneous 
character,  wrote  Hydriotaphia,  a  treatise  on  urn-burial ;  Pseudoxia 
Epidemica,  a  series  of  essays  on  common  errors ;  and  Religio  Medici, 
an  expression  of  his  personal  opinions  and  feelings,  theological  and 
otherwise.  Taylor  was  author  of  a  very  large  number  of  works, 


40  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

among  which  we  may  name  his  controversial  treatise  On  the  Liberty 
of  Prophesying,  his  Holy  Living,  Holy  Dying,  and  Sermons. 

Of  other  prose  writers  of  this  epoch,  those  claiming  a  mention 
are  William  Chillingworth,  John  Hales,  Thomas  Fuller,  and  Richard 
Baxter.  It  is  well  worthy  of  notice  that  all  these  prose  writers  were 
theologians;  a  fact  not  to  be  wondered  at,  however,  when  we  con- 
sider that  this  was  the  period  of  the  great  religious  contentions 
that  took  place  between  the  Anglican  Church  and  its  rival  sects, 
the  Presbyterians.  Puritans,  and  Independents. 

The  full  effect  upon  the  literature  of  the  age  of  the  abolition  of 
monarchy  and  the  establishment  of  the  Commonwealth,  is  not  to 
be  seen  until  some  time  after  the  period  occupied  by  the  preceding 
writers.  The  decorum  and  austerity  that  obtained  in  the  personal 
conduct  and  in  the  domestic  life  of  the  Protector  and  his  partisans, 
and  which,  by  these,  was  very  generally  propagated,  in  its  course 
working  the  abolition  of  theatres,  and  days,  places,  and  modes  of 
amusement  generally,  and  which,  by  caring  exclusively  for  the 
permanence  and  sobriety  of  society,  lost  sight  of  the  essential 
amenities  of  life,  moditied  quite  as  perceptibly  the  character  of  the 
current  literature. 

Beauty  and  imagination  were  driven  out  before  the  lash  of  in- 
coming dullness  and  literalness.  Strength  and  directness  of  ex- 
pression, solidity  of  statement,  and  a  prevailing  moral  or  religious 
import,  were  the  inseparable  elements  of  the  existing  literature. 
"We  find  amongst  them,"  says  Taine,  "only  excited  theologians, 
minute  controversialists,  energetic  men  of  action,  limited  and 
patient  minds,  engrossed  in  positive  proofs  and  practical  labors, 
void  of  general  ideas  and  refined  tastes,  resting  upon  texts,  dry  and 
obstinate  reasoners,  who  twisted  the  Scriptures  in  order  to  extract 
from  it  a  form  of  government  or  a  table  of  dogma." 

And  what  more  reasonable  result  to  expect  than  that  beauty- 
and  joy-loving,  nature-worshiping,  and  ideal  poets  should  fly  this 
angular,  harsh,  matter-of-fact,  and  wrangling  age?  One,  however, 
— though  not  a  poet  technically, — did  not  fly.  He  remained  be- 
hind the  rest;  and  though  he  not  only  became  habituated  to  the 
austerities  of  the  day,  but  even  one  of  their  most  enthusiastic  ad- 
vocates, he  did  not  even  then  succeed  in  annihilating  the  innate 
poetry  of  his  nature.  We  mean  John  Bunyan,  who,  though  chi  on- 
ologically  belonging  to  the  next  epoch,  was  a  legitimate  offspring 
of  the  influences  just  described.  A  separate  chapter  will  hereafter 
be  devoted  to  this  eminent  allegorist. 

The  Age  of  the  Restoration.  —  The  constraint  and  asceticism 
which  had  been  fastened  upon  the  English  during  the  continuance 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  41 

of  the  Commonwealth,  when  that  this  government  succumbed  be- 
fore the  restoration  of  royalty  in  the  ascension  of  Charles  II.,  were 
immediately  burst  off  as  galling  bands,  and  society  rapidly  lapsed 
into  licentiousness.  Eeligion  and  virtue,  which,  in  the  popular 
mind,  had  become  identical  with  Puritanism  and  fanaticism,  were 
supplanted  by  atheism  and  vice.  Religionists,  in  turn,  were  dis- 
ciplined and  persecuted  by  Roysterers.  Public  amusements  were 
resumed  with  fourfold  their  former  zest  and  patronage,  and  the 
King  himself  encouraged  dissoluteness  by  his  own  scandalous  life. 

This  moral  defection,  this  social  and  political  rottenness,  con- 
ceived in  and  excreted  from  the  highest  ranks  of  the  nation,  spread 
with  remarkable  malignancy  throughout  all  grades  of  society,  and, 
as  an  inevitable  consequence,  polluted  the  literature  of  the  day. 

Among  the  poets,  the  most  eminent  embodiment  of  many  of  the 
vicious,  though  not  the  grossest,  characteristics  of  this  literary 
epoch,  was  Samuel  Butler;  to  whom  we  shall  appropriate  a  special 
notice  in  a  subsequent  chapter. 

"The  drama,  early  attacked  by  the  Puritans,  passed  into  the 
hands  of  the  royalists.  Suppressed  during  the  Commonwealth 
and  Protectorate,  it  was  revived  at  the  Restoration,  under  the  most 
immediate  influence  of  the  court  party.  The  consequence  was  that 
the  drama,  while  marked  with  some  high  intellectual  qualities, 
more  especially  those  of  wit  and  insight,  now  became  more  corrupt 
than  ever  before,  had  in  it  less  constructive  power,  and  discon- 
nected itself  from  this  time  onward  almost  wholly  from  litera- 
ture." * 

On  no  species  of  writing  did  the  exaggerated  ideas  and  impure 
sentiments  of  the  age  leave  a  more  characteristic  impress  than  on 
the  dramatic  literature  of  this  epoch.  The  comprehensive  scope 
of  the  old  Elizabethan  masters  of  dramatic  conception,  wherein 
drama,  tragedy,  and  comedy  interwove  their  varying  threads  for 
the  production  of  a  single  harmonious  life-fabric,  was,  by  these 
later  dramatists,  divided,  after  the  French  manner,  into  two  dis- 
tinct literary  provinces)  namely,  tragedy  and  comedy.  And  each 
of  these  how  different  from  the  corresponding  creations  of  the 
Shakesperean  dramatists!  A  pompous,  distorted,  heroic  tragedy 
takes  the  place  of  the  rich,  romantic  drama;  and  comedy,  shorn 
of  its  fanciful  elements,  becomes  the  literal  vehicle  of  the  actual 
accidents  of  society.  In  a  word,  the  romance,  poetry,  and  ideality 
of  human  nature  are  eliminated,  and  nothing  is  left  but  exagger- 
ated  sentiment  and  a  minute  delineation  of  real  life. 

*  The  Philosophy  of  English  Literature.— BASCOM. 


42  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

But  what  is  worse  still,  natural  and  holy  affections  are  ignored 
for  passions  and  lusts ;  historical  and  legitimate  incidents  are  dis- 
carded for  fashionable  and  obscene  ones ;  the  imagination  ceases 
to  be  exercised,  and  the  senses  only  are  administered  to ;  and  the 
language,  from  original  boldness  and  picturesqueness,  degenerates 
into  coarseness  and  filthiness.  Vigor  there  is,  but  it  is  the  aban- 
donment of  the  animal  appetites  ;  dramatic  conception  there  is, 
but  it  is  the  portraiture  not  of  man  in  general,  but  of  some  indi- 
vidual; wit  there  is,  not  only  of  the  pungent,  biting,  and  mawkish 
sort,  but  strained  and  elaborated  wit ;  while  humor,  playful,  artless, 
fanciful  humor,  is  entirely  wanting.  It  is  the  naked,  shameless, 
shocking  real  that  we  here  meet  with;  the  lovely  and  delicate 
ideal  is  nowhere  to  be  found. 

The  leading  exponents  of  this  new  dramatic  literature  were 
Etherege,  author  of  the  Man  of  Mode;  Wycherley,  author  of  the 
comedies  Country  Wife  and  Plain  Dealer;  Vanbrugh,  author  of 
Relapse,  Provoked  Wife,  the  Confederacy,  and  several  other  come- 
dies ;  Farquhar,  author  of  the  plays  the  Constant  Couple,  the  In- 
constant, and  the  Beaux1  Stratagem ;  Congreve,  an  eminent  writer 
both  of  comedies  and  tragedies,  the  Old  Bachelor  and  Love  for  Love 
being  among  the  best  of  his  productions  in  the  department  of 
comedy,  and  the  Mourning  Bride  a  fair  sample  of  his  dramatic 
ability ;  Otway,  an  exclusively  tragic  dramatist,  whose  best  plays 
were  the  Orphan  and  Venice  Preserved;  Lee,  South  erne,  Howe, 
Mrs.  Behn,  Shadwell,  and  Crowne. 

The  most  prominent  literary  type  of  this  epoch  of  the  Restora- 
tion, and  one  who  exhibited  among  the  first  of  his  contemporaries 
the  literary  characteristics  of  his  age,  but  whose  fertility  and 
strength  of  imagination  allied  him  in  no  mean  measure  to  his 
Elizabethan  predecessors,  was  John  Dryden.  To  this  writer  we 
shall  hereafter  invite  the  student's  attention  more  particularly. 

Clarendon,  author  of  History  of  the  Great  Rebellion;  Izaak  Wal- 
ton, author  of  the  Complete  Angler,  a  delightful  treatise  on  his 
favorite  employment  of  fishing;  George  Savile,  Marquis  of  Hal- 
ifax, writer  of  political  tracts;  John  Evelyn,  author  of  treatises  on 
gardening  and  forestry ;  Samuel  Pepys,  whose  Diary  is  a  minute 
and  faithful  portraiture  of  the  scandalous  society  of  his  day ;  and 
Sir  Roger  L/Estrange,  a  vigorous  pamphleteer  of  the  Royalist 
party  are  among  the  foremost  prose  writers  of  the  age  of  the  Res- 
toration. 

The  Epoch  of  the  Revolution. — The  social  and  political  cor- 
ruption of  the  reigns  of  Charles  II.  and  his  more  immediate  suc- 
cessors was  purged  awav — very  gradually,  however,  and  not  without 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  43 

divers  returns  of  the  disorder — by  the  forces  of  constitutional  free- 
dom, scientific  and  philosophical  inquiry,  and  fundamental  English 
morality,  that  were  brought  into  action  by  the  Revolution  of  1688. 
We  encountered  in  the  age  of  Elizabeth  the  sensuous,  lusty,  jolly 
Englishman ;  during  the  Commonwealth,  the  practical,  fanatical, 
and  morose  Englishman ;  under  Charles  II.  and  James  II.,  the 
sensual  and  unbridled  Englishman  ;  but  in  the  Englishman  of  this 
revolutionary  epoch  we  may  contemplate  all  the  foregoing  char- 
acteristics brought,  not  completely  indeed,  but  measurably,  under 
the  control  of  an  innate  and  dominant  moral  sense. 

Regularity  and  propriety,  dictated  by  a  calm  and  unwavering 
conviction  of  their  justness,  and  commended  by  dearly-bought  ex- 
perience, now  appear  conspicuously  in  the  administration  of 
national  affairs,  in  the  usages  and  sentiments  of  society,  and  in  the 
arrangements  of  private  life.  This  social  and  political  revolution 
precipitated  a  literary  one.  The  Drama  and  Comedy,  lately  so 
prostituted,  are  now  quite  abandoned,  and  literary  activity  gradu- 
ally shifts  its  current  into  the  safer  channels  of  theological  and 
philosophical  dissertation,  and  eventually  into  those  of  the  Essay 
and  Romance. 

In  the  department  of  philosophy,  John  Locke  (1632-1704)  merits 
our  particular  notice.  His  writings  were  numerous  and  of  great 
variety  in  their  subject  matter.  Among  them  we  may  enumerate 
his  Letters  on  Toleration,  Treatise  on  Civil  Government,  Essay  on  the 
Human  Understanding,  and  essays  On  Education  and  On  Christi- 
anity. Locke's  influence  in  behalf  of  civil  and  religious  liberty  and 
liberal  education  was  very  considerable.  Not  so  salutary,  how- 
ever, was  his  philosophical  influence,  which  tended  directly  and 
powerfully  toward  strengthening  the  claims  of  materialism.  As  a 
writer,  he  combined  an  uncommon  acuteness  and  range  of  obser- 
vation with  logical  consecutiveness  and  cogency,  and  a  clearness 
and  charm  of  style. 

The  theological  and  polemical  literature  of  the  epoch  was  repre- 
sented by  the  works  of  such  divines  as  Isaac  Barrow,  John  Tillot- 
son,  Robert  South,  Stillingfleet,  Sprat,  Sherlock,  Cudworth,  and 
Burriet. 

Did  it  come  within  the  province  of  the  present  work  to  notice 
the  developments  of  science  that  took  place  contemporaneously 
with  the  various  literary  movements,  the  names  of  several  dis- 
tinguished scientists  belonging  to  the  present  epoch  might  be 
instanced.  We  may  be  allowed,  however,  to  notice  very  briefly 
one  of  the  most  illustrious  philosophers  not  only  of  this  epoch, 
but  of  any  age— Sir  Isaac  Newton  (1642-1727).  His  scientific 


44  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

works  were  the  Philosophise  Naturalis  Principia  Mathematica  and 
a  treatise  on  Optics.  Besides  these,  he  wrote  discourses  upon  the 
Prophesies  and  Scriptural  Chronology.  His  genius  was  not  un- 
equaled  by  his  modesty ;  for  he  invariably  attributed  his  scientific 
successes  to  patient  investigation  rather  than  to  superiority  of 
intellect. 

The  Eighteenth  Century. — We  have  already  alluded  to  the 
political  and  social  melioration  that  resulted  from  the  Revolution 
-of  1688.  The  regularity,  sense,  order,  morality,  and  improved  man- 
ners that  gradually  came  to  be  characteristic  of  the  English  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  found  their  counterparts,  if  not  their  legitimate 
issue,  in  the  literature  of  the  same  period.  The  writings  of  this  age, 
whether  poetical  or  prose,  are  remarkable,  as  compared  with  those 
of  preceding  ones,  for  their  superior  symmetry,  delicacy,  and 
polish.  The  ancient  classical  writers  were  sedulously  studied  as 
models  of  style,  and  their  peculiarities  were  imitated  in  every 
species  of  composition.* 

The  most  illustrious  exponents  of  the  English  classical  school — 
the  Augustan  poets,  as  they  have  been  styled — were  Pope  and 
Swift.  A  consideration  of  their  merits  will  constitute  separate 
chapters  at  a  later  stage  of  our  study. 

Of  the  writers  who  were  contemporary  with  Pope  and  Swift,  the 
fame  of  Arbuthnot  is  connected  with  his  History  of  John  Bull,  that 
of  Prior  with  Alma  and  Solomon,  that  of  Gay  with  the  Beggars' 

*  In  no  branch  was  it  displayed  more  manifestly  than  in  poetry,  and  at  no  time  did 
it  appear  more  clearly  than  under  Queen  Anne.  The  poets  had  just  attained  to  the 
art  which  they  had  discovered.  For  sixty  years  they  were  approaching  it ;  now 
they  possess  it,  handle  it ;  already  they  employ  and  exaggerate  it.  The  style  is  at 
the  same  time  finished  and  artificial.  Open  the  first  that  coines  to  hand,  Parnell  or 
Philips,  Addison  or  Prior,  Gay  or  Tickell,  you  find  a  certain  turn  of  mind,  versifica- 
tion, language.  Pass  to  a  second,  the  same  form  reappears ;  you  would  say  that  they 
were  imitations  one  of  another.  Go  on  to  a  third ;  the  same  diction,  the  same  apos- 
trophes, the  same  fashion  of  arranging  an  epithet  and  rounding  a  period.  Turn  over 
the  whole  lot,  with  little  individual  difference,  they  seem  to  be  all  cast  in  the  same 
mold.  One  is  more  epicurean,  another  more  moral,  another  more  biting:  but  the 
noble  language,  the  oratorical  pomp,  the  classical  correctness,  reign  throughout;  the 
substantive  is  accompanied  by  its  adjective,  its  knight  of  honor;  antithesis  balances 
the  symmetrical  architecture;  the  verb,  as  in  Lucan  or  Statius,  is  displayed,  flanked 
on  each  side  by  a  noun  decorated  by  an  epithet;  one  would  say  that  the  verse  had 
been  fabricated  by  a  machine,  so  uniform  is  the  make  ;  we  forget  what  it  means,  we 
are  tempted  to  count  the  feet  on  our  fingers ;  we  know  beforehand  what  poetical 
ornaments  are  to  embellish  it.  There  is  a  theatrical  dressing,  contrasts,  allusions, 
mythological  elegances.  Greek  or  Latin  quotations.  There  is  a  scholastic  solidity, 
sententious  maxims,  philosophic  commonplaces,  moral  developments,  oratorical 
exactness. 

"  So  here  we  see  classical  art  find  its  center  in  the  neighbors  of  Pope,  and  above  all 
in  Pope.  Then,  after  being  half  effaced,  mingle  with  foreign  elements  until  it  dis- 
appears in  the  poetry  which  succeeded  it." — Taine's  English  Literature. 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  45 

Opera,  and  that  of  Parnell  with  The  Hermit.  But  superior  to 
these  in  poetic  genius  and  in  the  popular  favor  his  verse  obtained 
was  Edward  Young  (1681-1765),  author  of  The  Night  Thoughts.  This 
poem,  so  replete  with  sublime  and  pathetic  sentiments  and  with 
eloquent  passages,  is  not  a  little  marred,  however,  by  its  prevailing 
somberness,  and  by  the  author's  unhappy  bias  for  antithesis  and 
for  pointed  contrasts. 

/O£he  eighteenth  century  may  be  said  to  have  witnessed  the  rise 
of  two  new  sorts  of  literary  production  in  England.  One  of  these 
was  that  form  of  composition  called  the  Essay.  In  its  original 
form  this  consisted  of  brief  dissertations  upon  subjects  related  to 
politics,  morality,  and  criticism  of  authors.  These  it  was  the  care 
to  present  in  a  lively  and  interesting  style,  and  with  a  view  both  to 
entertaining  and  edifying  the  reader.  These  essays  were  issued  in 
sheets  or  in  pamphlets,  and,  in  several  instances,  attained  to  a  very 
considerable  circulation. 

The  first  periodical  of  this  character  was  established  by  Sir  Rich- 
ard Steele,  in  1709,  and  was  called  the  Tatler.  Its  success  was  rapid 
and  large.  About  a  year  afterward,  however,  it  was  converted  into 
the  still  more  popular  Spectator,  and  this,  in  turn,  was  succeeded 
by  the  Guardian.  Associated  with  Steele  in  these  enterprises  were 
Addison,  Swift,  Berkeley,  Budgell,  and  several  others.  Later  in  the 
century  this  same  species  of  literature  was  revived  by  Samuel 
Johnson,  who,  with  scarcely  any  assistance,  founded  and  sus- 
tained the  Idler  and  the  Rambler. 

Our  limits  and  our  aim  both  exclude,  save  from  a  mere  mention, 
the  names  of  Sir  William  Temple,  Lord  Shaftesbury,  Bishop  Atter- 
bury,  Bolingbroke,  Mandeville,  Bishop  Berkeley,  and  Lady  Mon- 
tagu, prose  writers  of  the  present  epoch.  Addison,  whose  style  is 
regarded  as  the  model  of  correct,  polished,  and  elegant  writing,  we 
shall  reserve  for  future  treatment. 

The  employment  of  prose  narrative  for  the  delineation  of  the 
characters,  habits,  passions,  and  incidents  of  real  life,  thus  creating 
the  department  of  the  Novel  or  Prose  Fiction,  was  the  other  liter- 
ary novelty  of  the  century.  The  age  of  the  drama — the  picturesque 
drama  of  the  Elizabethan  epoch,  and  the  sprightly,  licentious 
drama  of  the  period  immediately  ensuing — had  now  passed  away; 
and  the  age  that  succeeded  was  not  only  one  of  prose  compo- 
sition, but,  by  contrast  with  the  intense  vitality  and  ideal  range  of 
the  former,  also  a  prosaic  era.  Even  romance,  which  in  its  origi- 
nal continental  form  embraced  all  of  the  poetic  elements  charac- 
teristic of  the  early  English  drama,  parted  with  much  of  its  ideal 
essence  in  becoming  Anglicized;  while  the  novel,  from  what  it  was 


46  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

as  known  to  the  Italians,  the  Spaniards,  and  the  French  of  the 
fifteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries,  descended  to  a  realistic  depiction 
of  contemporary  concerns  of  society  and  the  home.  And  not  sim- 
ply a  depiction,  but  one  with  a  motive — a  moral  purpose  involved 
in  it. 

This  particular  sort  of  literature  was  inaugurated  by  the  writings 
of  Defoe,  Richardson,  Fielding,  Smollett,  Goldsmith,  and  Sterne. 
An  extended  notice  of  these  writers  will  be  found  further  along. 

Laurence  Sterne  (1713-1768),  whom  the  narrowness  of  our  lim- 
its reduces  to  this  brief  paragraph,  wrote  Tristram  Shandy  and  the 
Sentimental  Journey.  Extraordinary  minuteness,  absence  of  plot, 
wonderful  variety  of  matter,  great  capriciousness  of  treatment,  an 
epicurean  taste,  and  pathos  and  humor  indiscriminately  blended, 
are  the  characteristics  of  Tristram  Shandy. 

History. — Historical  writing,  though  it  had  appeared  early  and 
had  reappeared  frequently,  realized  so  splendid  a  development  in 
the  eighteenth  century  that,  as  contrasted  with  its  previous  attain- 
ments, it  may  indeed  be  said  to  have  experienced  in  this  era  a  re- 
generation. The  names  of  those  participating  most  conspicuously 
in  this  achievement  are  Hume,  Robertson,  and  Gibbon. 

Robertson's  contribution  to  the  historical  literature  of  the  cen- 
tury consisted  of  the  History  of  Scotland,  History  of  the  Reign  of 
Charles  V.,  and  History  of  the  Discovery  of  America.  Though  not 
always  an  accurate  narrator,  Robertson  was  always  an  interesting 
and  eloquent  writer;  his  treatment  being  lucid  and  comprehen- 
sive, and  his  style  rich,  vivid,  and  melodious.  Hume  and  Gibbon, 
and  that  most  splendid  prose  writer  of  his  age,  Edmund  Burke, 
also  Samuel  Johnson,  will  be  noticed  in  separate  chapters  here- 
after. 

Other  and  somewhat  noted  prose  writers  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury were  James  Boswell  (1740-1795),  biographer  of  Doctor  John- 
son; Adam  Smith  (1723-1790),  originator  in  England  of  the  science 
of  Political  Economy;  Sir  William  Blackstone  (1723-1780),  author 
of  Commentaries  on  the  Laws  of  England;  Bishop  Butler  (1692-1752), 
author  of  the  Analogy  between  Natural  and  Revealed  Religion;  and 
William  Paley  (1743-1805),  author  of  the  Evidences  of  Christianity, 
and  a  Treatise  on  Natural  Theology. 

The  Letters  of  Junius,  the  most  caustic  attacks  upon  public  men 
and  measures  of  the  times,  belong  to  this  literary  epoch.  Within 
the  same  era,  too,  we  shall  discover  in  the  speecnes  of  Pitt  (Earl 
of  Chatham),  Fox  (the  great  Commoner),  Walpole,  Burke,  Sheri- 
dan, and  Windham,  the  most  splendid  flowering  of  English  oratory. 

We  have  now  come  to  the  boundary  of  a  new  era  in  English  lit- 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  47 

erature, — the  era  of  the  revival  of  the  romantic  type  of  thought 
and  style ;  but  before  we  cross  it,  it  will  be  well  to  notice  a  few  re- 
maining writers  who  flourished  in,  as  it  were,  a  transitional  period, 
and  whose  productions  aided  materially  in  ushering  in  the  new 
and  glorious  era  just  alluded  to.  Chief  of  these  were  Thomson 
and  Gray.  For  a  notice  of  the  writings  of  these  poets,  the  reader 
is  referred  to  the  second  part  of  this  work. 

Several  of  the  minor  poets  of  the  eighteenth  century  deserve  a 
mention.  Such  were  William  Shenstone,  author  of  the  School- 
mistress; William  Collins,  author  of  several  charming  Odes  and 
Lyrics;  Mark  Akenside,  author  of  The.  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination; 
Macpherson,  Chatterton,  and  George  Crabbe. 

Crabbe  (1754-1832)  wrote  The  Village,  The  Parish  Register,  The 
Borough,  Sir  Eustace  Grey,  and  several  other  poems.  "  He  thoroughly 
knew  and  profoundly  analyzed  the  hearts  of  men :  the  virtues,  the 
vices,  the  weakness,  and  the  heroism  of  the  poor  he  has  anatomized 
with  a  stern  but  not  unloving  hand.  No  poet  has  more  subtly 
traced  the  motives  which  regulate  human  conduct;  and  his  descrip- 
tions of  nature  are  marked  by  the  same  unequaled  power  of  render- 
ing interesting,  by  the  sheer  force  of  truth  and  exactness,  the  most 
unattractive  features  of  the  external  world."  * 

The  Comic  Drama  of  the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  century 
found  its  ablest  exponents  in  David  Garrick,  the  celebrated  actor; 
Foote,  Cumberland,  the  two  Colmans,  and  Sheridan.  The  works 
of  the  last  will  be  hereafter  noticed  in  a  separate  chapter. 

The  Nineteenth  Century. — The  beginning  of  the  nineteenth 
century  proved  the  beginning  also  of  a  new  era  in  the  history  of 
English  literature.  The  preceding  age,  with  its  Popes,  Swifts.  Ad- 
disons,  Humes,  and  Burkes,  had  imparted  to  every  description  of 
letters  a  classical  perfection  of  form.  Whatever  the  subject-matter 
might  be,  the  style  was  invariably  precise,  regular,  and  highly 
polished.  Natural  sentiments  and  humors,  instead  of  finding  ex- 
pression in  simple  and  robust  language,  took  on  the  genteel  garb 
of  pompous  diction,  allegorical  phrase,  and  sonorous  periods. 

The  dawn  of  the  transition  to  that  freer  and  more  natural 
play  of  thought  and  expression  characteristic  of  the  present  cen- 
tury, was  heralded  by  such  auroral  streaks  as  the  Seasons  of  Thom- 
son, the  Odes  of  Collins  and  Gray,  and,  along  with  these,  a  little 
star-group, —  the  Rcliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry, —  Bishop  Percy's 
collection  of  the  old  Minstrel  Ballads  of  the  Middle  Ages,  published 
in  1765.  But  more  significant  agencies  than  these  lay  just  beyond 

*  Shaw's  Outlines  of  English  Literature. 


48  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

the  horizon  in  political  events  transpiring  on  the  continents  of 
Europe  and  America. 

The  writings  of  such  men  as  Voltaire,  Montesquieu,  Eousseau, 
D'Alembert,  and  Diderot,  in  denying  the  exclusiveness  and  author- 
ity of  the  clergy,  the  hereditary  immunities  and  prerogatives  of 
the  aristocracy,  in  promulgating  the  doctrine  of  the  equality  of  all 
men  before  God  and  the  law,  and  in  advocating  democratic  ideas 
of  government,  had  aroused  Continental  thought  and  life  to  a  new 
and  violent  activity.  The  puissant  and  leavening  principles  thus 
set  in  motion  spread  with  marvelous  facility  and  acceptance 
throughout  all  the  more  intelligent  parts  of  Europe,  working,  as 
their  immediate  and  practical  results,  the  abolition  of  the  Order 
of  Jesuits  and  of  the  Inquisition,  the  opening  of  institutions  of 
learning,  the  formation  of  societies  for  the  dissemination  of  knowl- 
edge and  literary  culture,  the  recasting  and  the  more  equitable 
administration  of  the  laws,  more  liberal  legislation,  the  encourage- 
ment of  the  arts  and  sciences,  and  the  revival  of  chivalric  and 
romantic  ideas. 

In  France,  where  this  movement  experienced  its  extreme  de- 
velopment, its  various  tendencies  were  rapidly  engulfed  in  one 
grand  and  sweeping  vortex  of  political  revolution;  but  in  Ger- 
many, though  it  lacked  not  here  a  political  aspect  also,  it  became 
distinctively  a  philosophical  movement  —  a  revolution  of  ideas  and 
literary  taste.  This  people  "sought  religious  sentiment  beyond 
dogma,  poetic  beauty  beyond  rules,  critical  truth  beyond  myths. 
They  desired  to  grasp  natural  and  moral  powers  themselves,  inde- 
pendently of  the  fictitious  supports  to  which  their  predecessors 
had  attached  them."* 

Poets  and  prose  writers  now  arose,  who,  discarding  the  artificial, 
conventional,  and  dead-level  life  of  the  age,  sought  their  inspiration 
in  the  ideas  and  customs  of  the  middle  ages,  and  in  the  religious 
contemplation  of  the  East.  "The  faith  in  miracles  and  the  religious 
mysticism  of  an  early  period  of  Christianity,  the  love  affairs  and 
the  sensuous  religious  worship  of  the  departed  days  of  chivalry, 
the  sacred  art  of  the  middle  ages,  the  flowery  poetry  of  the  East, 
the  popular  songs  and  the  meditative  world  of  fable  of  the  distant 
past,  permanently  engaged  their  interest.  It  was  for  this  reason 
that  their  views  were  directed  to  the  forgotten  productions  of  the 
literature  of  romance,  whilst,  following  the  example  of  Herder, 
they  collected  and  elaborated  the  legends,  traditions,  and  popular 
songs  of  German  antiquity,  and  then  sought  to  introduce  the 
chivalrous  poetry  of  the  Italians  and  Spaniards  into  Germany  by 

*  Taine's  English  Literature. 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  49 

means  of  translations ;  and  drew  the  mythology,  and  the  poetry 
founded  upon  it,  of  the  East  and  of  the  Scandinavian  North, 
within  the  circle  of  their  activity."  * 

Such  is  a  glimpse  of  the  political,  moral,  and  sesthetical  forces  that, 
near  the  commencement  of  the  nineteenth  century,  began  to  surge 
like  tidal  waves  about  the  national,  domestic,  and  literary  life  of 
the  English  people.  Their  political  influences,  though  vaguely  felt 
in  the  national  mind,  were,  by  the  sturdy,  conservative,  practical 
character  of  the  people,  successfully  resisted  at  this  time.  "  New 
theories  could  not  arise  in  this  society  armed  against  new  theories. 
Yet  the  revolution  made  its  entrance ;  it  entered  disguised,  and 
through  a  byway,  so  as  not  to  be  recognized.  It  was  not  social 
ideas,  as  in  France,  that  were  transformed,  nor  philosophical  ideas,  as 
in  Germany,  but  literary  ideas ;  the  great  rising  tide  of  the  modern 
mind,  which  elsewhere  overturned  the  whole  edifice  of  human 
conditions  and  speculations,  succeeded  here  only  at  first  in  changing 
style  and  taste.  It  was  a  slight  change,  at  least  apparently,  but  on 
the  whole  of  equal  value  with  the  others ;  for  this  renovation  in  the 
manner  of  writing  is  a  renovation  in  the  manner  of  thinking :  the 
one  led  to  all  the  rest,  as  the  movement  of  a  central  pivot  con- 
strains the  movement  of  all  the  indented  wheels."f 

But  there  were  internal  causes,  as  well  as  external  ones,  which 
conspired  in  the  production  of  this  new  era  of  literature.  We  have 
already  alluded  to  the  natural  and  romantic  notes  sounded  through 
the  Anglican  temple  of  modern  classicism  by  the  labors  of  Thom- 
son, Collins,  Gray,  and  Bishop  Percy.  A  little  later,  and  these  notes 
are  again  heard,  purged  of  all  art,  free,  full,  deliciously  and  strangely 
sweet,  in  the  poems  of  Robert  Burns  and  William  Cowper.  These 
both  were  by  birth  poets  ;  art  had  nothing  to  do  with  their  making. 
The  one  by  birth  and  early  surroundings,  the  other  from  choice 
and  natural  bias,  were  isolated  from  the  artificial  and  epicurean 
spirit  of  the  times  in  which  they  lived.  Their  muse  took  to 
Nature  and  to  the  natural  life  of  man  instinctively,  and  uttered 
its  fancies  and  fervors  in  language  pure  as  light,  sparkling  as  dew, 
and  fresh,  varied,  and  picturesque  as  the  features  of  the  landscape. 
They  hated  the  conventional  and  meretricious  in  thought,  princi- 
ple, and  life,  as  well  as  in  style,  and  were  never  weary  of  exposing 
and  lampooning  hypocrisy  and  pedantry.  From  courts  and  crowds 
they  turned  away  with  a  genuine  disgust,  and  found  their  readiest 
employ  in  singing  in  simple  strains  the  vicissitudes  of  domestic  and 
common  life.  Man  with  them  was  estimated  at  his  true  worth, — 
the  wealth  of  his  naked  soul,  the  nobility  of  his  conduct,  —  and 

*  Weber's  Outlines  of  Universal  History.  t  Taine's  English  Literature. 

5  D 


50  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Nature  to  them  was  the  wild  picturesqueness  of  Scotland  or  the 
garden  beauty  of  England.  The  writings  of  these  men  had  not  a 
little  to  do  with  precipitating  the  revolution  of  the  popular  literary 
taste  which  followed  close  upon  their  times. 

And  now,  upon  the  threshold  of  the  present  century,  directed 
not  only  by  the  influences  already  noticed,  but  largely  also  by  the 
reactionary  philosophical  theories  of  the  times, —  the  skepticism  of 
the  French  school  and  the  pantheism  and  the  mysticism  of  the  Ger- 
man, appears  the  English  romantic  school  of  literature ;  pro- 
ducing, on  the  one  hand,  historical  poetry  and  romance,  and,  on  the 
other,  psychological  poetry.  Scott,  Campbell,  Southey,  Moore, 
Landor,  and  Leigh  Hunt  are  eminent  types  of  the  former  class 
of  writers,  while  Wordsworth,  Crabbe,  Coleridge,  Byron,  Shelley, 
and  Keats  represent  with  varying  exactness  the  latter. 

The  former  sought  their  themes  and  materials  among  the  mid- 
dle and  early  ages  and  in  distant  and  little  known  lands,  and 
brought  them  forth  to  the  public  eye,  all  hideous  with  barbaric 
grossness  or  dazzling  with  Oriental  magnificence.  They  rea- 
soned: ''The  barbarian,  the  feudal  man,  the  cavalier  of  the  Re- 
naissance, the  Mussulman,  the  Indian,  each  age  and  each  race,  has 
conceived  its  beauty.  Let  us  enjoy  it,  and  for  this  purpose  put  our- 
selves in  the  place  of  the  discoverers;  altogether;  for  it  will  not 
suffice  to  represent,  like  the  previous  novelists  and  dramatists, 
modern  and  national  manners  under  old  and  foreign  names ;  let 
us  paint  the  sentiments  of  other  ages  and  other  races  with  their 
own  features,  however  different  these  features  may  be  from  our 
own,  and  however  unpleasing  to  our  taste.  Let  us  show  our 
character  as  he  was,  grotesque  or  not,  with  his  costume  and 
speech ;  let  him  be  fierce  and  superstitious  if  he  was  so ;  let  us 
dash  the  barbarian  with  blood,  and  load  the  covenanter  with  his 
bundle  of  biblical  texts.  Then  one  by  one  on  the  literary  stage 
men  saw  the  vanished  or  distant  civilization  return :  first  the 
middle  age  and  the  Renaissance,  then  Arabia,  Hindostan,  and 
Persia;  then  the  classical  age  and  the  eighteenth  century  itself ; 
and  the  historic  taste  becomes  so  eager,  that  from  literature  the 
contagion  spread  to  other  arts."*  Thus  sprang  up  Waverley,  Ivan- 
hoe,  Lalla  Rookh,  Thalaba,  Roderick  the  Last  of  the  Goths,  The  Curse  of 
Kehama,  and  other  poems  and  romances  of  a  like  semi-historical 
character. 

The  other  branch  of  this  school,  the  psychological  poets,  made 
human  life  and  destiny  the  great  burden  of  their  thoughts  and 
musings.  Their  eyes  were  turned  inward,  upon  the  soul,  to  explore 

*  Tainc'ti  LiKjUnlt  Litc.rutu.re. 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  51 

the  sources  and  comprehend  the  end  of  the  vague  longings  and 
bold  aspirations  that  troubled  them.  What  is  man  ?  and  what  his 
mission  ?  were  the  great  problems  they  would  fain  solve.  Some, 
like  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  sought  a  solution  by  the  light  of 
Christian  ethics,  while  others,  like  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats,  in 
the  glamour  of  pagan  visions.  There  was  a  diversity,  too,  in  the 
styles  of  these  different  writers  and  in  their  themes,  Wordsworth's 
being  pre-eminently  realistic  and  homely,  Shelley's  marvelously 
fantastic  and  abstracted,  and  Byron's  intensely  passionate,  dramatic, 
and  sensuous.  But  all,  from  their  several  points  of  view,  and  ac- 
cording to  a  certain  preconceived  philosophy  of  life,  sought  to  eluci- 
date the  problem  of  human  existence. 

We  have  now  had  a  tolerably  fair  view  of  the  youthful  features 
of  this  modern  literature.  Of  obscure  birth,  from  a  youth  spent  in 
the  sweet  and  peaceful  employ  of  a  pastoral  life,  with  a  counte- 
nance ruddy  from  the  kindly  caresses  of  Nature,  armed  with  homely 
and  simple  weapons,  but  actuated  by  a  divinely-inspired  purpose, 
this  New  Literature  comes  boldly  forth  to  meet,  amidst  taunts  and 
sneers,  the  brass-clad,  formidably  armed,  thoroughly  disciplined, 
and  victorious  Goliath  —  the  classicism  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
The  struggle  is  brief.  Perfect  art  and  gigantic  conventionalism 
fall,  mortally  smitten  by  the  rude  stone  of  natural  expression  and 
feeling. 

It  will  be  our  next  endeavor  to  follow  this  new  literature  through 
its  main  branches  of  poetry,  fiction,  history,  and  critical  writing, 
down  to  the  present;  noticing,  briefly, the  nature  and  peculiarities 
of  each. 

Modern  Poetry.  —  The  distinctive  features  of  modern  English 
poetry  have  already  been  sketched,  and  the  most  eminent  of  its 
earlier  representatives  —  Cowper,  Crabbe,  Burns,  Scott,  Byron, 
Moore,  Shelley,  Keats,  Campbell,  Leigh  Hunt,  Landor,  Words- 
worth, Coleridge,  and  Southey — named.  To  continue  this  worthy 
roll,  and  to  make  it  reasonably  complete  down  to  the  present  time, 
there  should  be  added  the  names  of  Tennyson,  Browning,  Hood, 
Henry  Taylor,  Knowles,  Procter  ("Barry  Cornwall"),  Matthew 
Arnold,  Swinburne,  Buchanan,  Macdonald,  Henry  Bulwer-Lytton 
("  Owen  Meredith  "),  William  Morris,  Mrs.  Browning,  Mrs. Hemans, 
Eliza  Cook,  Mrs.  Norton,  Joanna  Baillie,  and  Jean  Ingelow.* 

*  Other  names  still  worthy  of  a  mention  are  Samuel  Rogers,  William  L.  Bowles, 
James  Montgomery,  Horace  Smith,  William  Herbert,  Thomas  H.  Bayly,  James  Gra- 
hame,  William  Sotheby,  Dr.  Heber,  Robert  Pollock,  W.  M.  Praed,  Hartley  and  Sara 
Coleridge,  Mrs.  Southey,  Robert  Montgomery,  Miss  Landon  ("  L.  E.  L  "),  George 
Croly,  James  Hogg,  Allan  Cunningham,  Henry  K.  White,  William  Motherwell,  and 
Gerald  Massey. 


52  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

A  lively  sympathy,  naturally  expressed,  with  living  sentiments 
and  actions,  whether  trivial  or  momentous,  and  whenever  the  life 
of  the  past  engages  attention  a  realistic  interpretation  of  the  same, 
these  are  the  broad  and  fundamental  characteristics  of  the  poetry 
of  these  later  or  living  writers.  With  these,  style  has  become  as 
capricious  and  varied  a  thing  as  human  nature  itself, — the  word,  the 
phrase,  the  figure,  the  period,  all  being  despotically  dictated  by  the 
idiosyncrasies  of  mind  and  life  of  the  individual,  or  by  the  natural 
peculiarities  of  the  scene  described. 

Along  with  this  prevalent  and  fundamental  realism,  there  exists, 
of  course,  a  great  variety  in  the  matter  and  style  of  thought. 
Some,  like  Tennyson,  the  Brownings,  and  Matthew  Arnold,  are 
largely  subjective  in  their  treatment;  the  external  world  serving 
them  chiefly  for  purposes  of  illustration.  Their  phraseology  is 
often  obscure,  and  their  ideas  sometimes  appear  provokingly  in- 
definite ;  but  all  have  given  us  not  a  few  instances  of  a  melody 
and  polish  of  versification,  a  wealth  and  fitness  of  imagery,  and  a 
grace  and  spirituality  of  poetic  conception  unapproached  by  any 
other  living  poets. 

Others,  like  Mrs.  Hemans,  Eliza  Cook,  Jean  Ingelow,  Mrs.  Nor- 
ton, Joanna  Baillie,  and,  to  a  certain  extent,  "  Barry  Cornwall," 
have  sung  the  domestic  affections,  and  have  depicted  the  concerns 
of  humble  life  and  the  familiar  aspects  of  nature  so  really  and  so 
feelingly,  as  forever  to  endear  themselves  to  the  popular  mind  and 
heart. 

Others,  again,  like  Charles  Mackay,  Alexander  Smith,  and  Fred- 
erick Locker,  have  chosen  their  themes  and  literary  properties  from 
the  city,  and  have  devoted  themselves  to  representing  the  manifold 
interests  and  experiences  of  the  toiling,  jostling,  prosaic  multitude. 
And  others  still,  like  William  Morris  and  Robert  Buchanan,  have 
addressed  themselves  to  the  work  of  reproducing,  after  the  quaint 
and  picturesque  fashion  of  Chaucer,  the  fables  and  mythologic 
romances  of  classic  times;  while  some,  like  George  Macdonald, 
have  sought  their  inspiration  in  the  touching  episodes  of  scriptural 
history. 

Modern  Fiction. — "We  see,  indeed,  that  the  great  literary 
controversy  between  Classicism  and  Romanticism  was  a  direct 
result  of  the  French  revolution.  In  that  crisis,  the  Gothic  depths 
of  the  western  European  mind  were  broken  into;  and  though,  polit- 
ically, the  immediate  effect  was  a  disgust  of  the  past,  and  a  longing 
toward  the  future  as  the  era  of  human  emancipation,  yet,  intel- 
lectually, the  effect  was  a  contempt  for  classic  modes  of  fancy  and 
composition,  and  a  letting  loose  of  the  imagination  upon  Nature 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  53 

in  her  wildest  and  grandest  recesses,  and  upon  whatever  in  human 
history  could  supply  aught  in  affinity  with  the  furious  workings  of 
contemporary, passion.  The  Gothic  Romance,  of  the  picturesque 
and  the  ghostly,  afforded  the  necessary  conditions."* 

As  exponents  of  this  new  species  of  prose  fiction,  we  may  instance 
Horace  Walpole  (1717-1797),  author  of  The  Castle  of  Otranto ;  Clara 
Reeve  (1725-1803), author  of  the  Old  English  Baron;  Ann  Radcliffe 
(1764-1823),  author  of  The  Romance  of  the  Forest  and  The  Mysteries 
of  Udolpho;  Matthew  G.  Lewis,  Charles  R.  Maturin,  G.  P.  R.  James, 
and  Mrs.  Shelley.  Casting  the  scenes  of  their  fictions  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  or,  if  in  more  recent  times,  in  those  parts  of  southern 
Europe  inseparably  associated  with  romantic  ideas  and  customs, 
these  writers  sought,  by  the  employment  of  supernatural  adjuncts, 
to  involve  the  incidents  and  personages  of  their  story  in  a  prevail- 
ing mystery  —  in  an  impending  catastrophe  of  horror. 

But  the  more  direct  fruits  of  the  revolutionary  ideas  of  1789,  as 
developed  in  prose  fiction,  were  met  with  in  the  combined  political 
and  romantic  writings  of  Robert  Bage,  Thomas  Holcroft,  and, 
more  markedly  still,  in  those  of  William  Godwin.  In  1794,  the 
latter,  already  well  known  as  a  political  writer,  published  his  novel, 
Caleb  Williams,  or  Things  as  they  are.  He  himself  characterized  it  as 
"a  study  and  delineation  of  things  passing  in  the  moral  world," 
"  a  general  review  of  the  modes  of  domestic  and  unrecorded  des- 
potism by  which  man  becomes  the  destroyer  of  man."  This  work 
he  followed  up  with  St.  Leon,  Fleetwood,  Mandeville,  and  Cloudesley, 
all  with  a  view  to  propagating  the  social  and  political  theories  ad- 
vocated by  the  visionary  and  ultra,  but  philanthropic,  minds  of  the 
age.  All  the  trappings  of  supernatural  embellishment,  so  charac- 
teristic of  the  preceding  school  of  writers,  are  in  these  works  dis- 
carded ;  the  interests  of  the  present  life  and  an  earnest  effort  for 
its  amelioration  taking  the  places  of  feudal  concerns  and  romantic 
fantasies.  True,  this  practical  and  didactic  aim,  judged  of  by  the 
terms  of  its  presentation,  seems  highly  ideal;  but  none  the  less  did 
it  concern  itself  exclusively  with  actual  and  present  affairs.  It  was 
the  ideal  seeking  to  penetrate  and  thereby  to  ennoble  the  real; 
or,  rather,  the  genuine  real  struggling  to  slough  off  the  conven- 
tionalisms and  disguises  of  an  artificial  life. 

Still  another  phase  of  the  tendencies  of  this  revolutionary  epoch, 
as  reflected  in  the  glass  of  fiction,  was  the  portraiture  of  the  life  and 
manners  of  existing  society.  The  former  artificial  demarcations 
of  classes  had  been  gradually  worn  away  by  the  tramp  of  general 
refinement  and  popular  freedom  ;  and  the  writer,  that  would  now 

*  Hassan's  British  Novelists  and  their  Styles. 
5* 


54  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

delineate  the  various  aspects  of  society,  must  penetrate  beyond  the 
uniformly  well-dressed  and  genteelly-behaved  crowd  into  the  inner 
and  social  life  of  individuals  and  classes.  To  do  this  demanded  a 
close,  incisive,  and  conscientious  study  of  character,  of  human 
motives,  and  of  the  effects  of  human  conduct.  Thus  was  the  nov- 
elist brought  into  actual  contact  with  the  realities  of  his  own  times. 
A  glance  at  the  names  of  the  principal  laborers  in  this  department 
of  fiction,  reveals  the  noticeable  fact  that  most  of  the  writers  were 
women.* 

The  most  eminent  of  these  writers  were  Miss  Edgeworth,  Miss 
Austen,  and  Miss  Mitford.  The  first  (1765-1849),  through  the  im- 
mense number,  variety,  and  excellence  of  her  works,  has  delighted 
and  instructed  readers  of  all  ages.  For  the  very  young,  she  has 
written  the  charming  tales  entitled  Frank,  Harry  and  Lucy,  and 
Rosamond;  for  those  somewhat  more  advanced,  Simple  Susan,  En- 
nui, Leonora,  and  Belinda;  and  for  the  mature  reader,  Castle  Rock- 
rent,  Patronage,  and  the  Absentee.  In  the  last  three  works,  our 
authoress  has  delineated,  in  all  its  humor,  pathos,  merits,  and  de- 
merits, the  peculiarities  of  the  Irish  peasantry. 

"  In  her  writings  we  see  the  Irish  peasant  as  he  is ;  and  it  is  im- 
possible to  conceive  a  greater  contrast  than  that  of  her  animated 
sketches  and  the  conventional  Irishman  of  the  stage  or  of  fiction. 
The  services  rendered  by  Maria  Edgeworth  to  the  cause  of  com- 
mon sense  are  incalculable ;  and  the  singular  absence  of  enthusi- 
asm in  her  writings,  whether  religious,  political,  or  social,  only 
makes  us  more  wonder  at  the  force,  vivacity,  and  consistency  with 
which  she  has  drawn  a  large  and  varied  gallery  of  character."! 

Passing  from  Ireland  to  England,  we  meet  with  Miss  Austen 
(1775-1817),  working  a  vein  a  little  higher  up  in  the  social  strata  — 
the  society  of  the  English  country  gentleman.  With  scarcely  any 
plot,  and  with  an  almost  total  lack  of  picturesqueness  and  variety 
in  persons  and  incidents,  she  has  yet,  with  a  unique  precision  and 
naturalness,  photographed  the  rural  gentry  of  England  in  her 
Sense  and  Sensibility,  Pride  and  Prejudice,  Mansfield  Park,  and  Emma. 

Miss  Mitford  (1789-1855)  has  succeeded  in  painting,  with  exqui- 
site grace  and  fidelity,  the  village  life  and  scenery  of  England. 
" Our  Village  is  one  of  the  most  delightful  books  in  the  language: 
it  is  full  of  those  home  scenes  which  form  the  most  exquisite  pecu- 
liarity, not  only  of  the  external  nature,  but  also  of  the  social  life 
of  the  country.''^ 

*  Of  the  number  we  may  name  Miss  Burney,  the  Misses  Lee,  Mrs.  Smith,  Inchbald, 
Opie,  Brunton,  Hamilton,  Trollope,  Misses  Edgeworth,  Austen,  Mitford,  and  Hannah 
More,  and  Lady  Morgan. 

t  Shaw's  Outlines  of  English  Literature.  J  Ibid. 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  55 

We  now  have  before  us  a  fair  summary  of  the  earliest  effects  upon 
English  prose  fiction  wrought  by  the  revolutionary  impulses  of  the 
Continent.  Those  effects,  as  we  have  seen,  had  three  distinct 
manifestations.  One  was  the  turning  of  the  mind  away  from  the 
coldness,  inanity,  and  artificialness  of  the  classical  style  of  though* 
and  expression  of  the  eighteenth  century  to  the  warmth,  sensu. 
ousness,  and  robustness  of  the  romantic  literature  and  life  of  thfc 
Gothic  ages  :  another  —  and  one  in  an  opposite  direction  —  was  the 
repudiation  of  all  past  ideas  and  sentiments,  and  the  attempt  to 
create,  out  of  the  events  and  sentiments  of  the  stirring  present,  an 
inartificial  and  realistic  school  of  thought  and  expression ;  while 
the  third  was  the  simple  and  accurate  portraiture  of  the  manners 
and  humors  of  the  various  classes  of  existing  society.  The  first 
was  effective  in  carrying  the  mind  back  to  a  forgotten  freshness; 
the  second,  in  projecting  it  into  a  future  Utopia  of  ideas ;  the  third, 
in  restricting  it  to  a  thorough  understanding  of,  and  to  a  making 
the  best  of,  the  present  constitution  of  affairs. 

We  now  stand  fairly  within  the  precincts  of  nineteenth  cen- 
tury fiction,  and,  as  we  cast  our  eyes  over  the  prospect,  are  all 
but  bewildered  by  the  numerous  ramifications  into  which  the  three 
main  currents  we  have  been  heretofore  following  suddenly  divide. 
An  able  and  recent  critic  includes  these  varieties  under  no  less 
than  thirteen  distinct  heads.* 


*  We  have  (1)  The  Novel  of-  Scottish  Life  and  Manners,  with  such  writers  as  Scott, 
Gait,  Hogg,  Cunningham,  Lockhart,  Wilson,  Miller,  Macdonald,  and  others;  (2) 
The  Novel  of  Irish  Life  and  Manners,  its  best  representatives  being  Miss  Edgeworth, 
Banim,  Croker,  Griffin,  Carleton,  Lover,  Lever,  and  Mrs.  Hall:  (3)  The  Novel  of  Eng- 
lish Life  and  Manners,  with,  as  its  exponents,  Scott,  Hoqk,  \Vard,  Miss  Austen,  Miss 
Mitford,  Disraeli,  Sir  Bulwer-Lytton,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  Mrs.  Gore,  Mrs.  Trollope, 
Anthony  Trollope,  Lady  Blessington,  Miss  Martineau,  Jerrold,  Mrs.  Crowe,  Lewes, 
Brooks,  Mrs.  Marsh,  Miss  Bronte,  Miss  Muloch,  "George  Eliot,"  Mrs.  Gaskell, Wilkie 
Collins,  Charles  Reade,  Kingsley,  Thomas  Hughes,  Mrs.  Oliphant,  and  others;  (4) 
The  Fashionable  Novel,  depicting  aristocratic  metropolitan  life,  with  such  representa- 
tives as  Caroline  Lamb,  Hook,  Disraeli,  Sir  Bulwer-Lytton,  Mrs.  Gore,  Mrs.  Trollope, 
Lady  Blessington,  Thackeray  — in  a  measure  — and  others;  (5)  The  Illustrious  Crim- 
inal Novel,  with  such  contributors  as  Sir  Bulwer-Lytton  and  Mr.  Ainsworth;  (6)  The 
Traveler's  Novel,  illustrated  by  Sir  Bulwer-Lytton,  Mrs.  Gore,  Mrs.  Trollope,  and 
Thackeray ;  (7)  The  Novel  of  American  Manners  and  Society,  represented  by  the  writ- 
ings of  Mrs.  Trollope,  Captain  Marry  at,  and  partially  by  Dickens  and  Thackeray; 
(8)  The  Oriental  Novel,  as  set  forth  in  the  works  of  Beckford,  Hope,  Morier,  Eraser, 
Disraeli,  and  others ;  (9)  TJie  Military  Novel,  and  (10)  The  Naval  Novel,  as  exemplified 
in  the  writings  of  Geig,  Maxwell,  Lever,  Lover,  Marryat,  Chamier,  Hannay,  Cupp- 
les,  Glasscock,  Howard,  and  Trelawney :  (11)  The  Novel  of  Supernatural  Phantasy,  of 
which  Mrs.  Shelley's  Frankenstein,  Bulwer's  Zanoni,  and  some  of  the  tales  of  Jerrold, 
and  some  of  the  Christmas  stories  of  Dickens  are  examples  ;  (12)  The  Art  and  Culture 
Novel,  not  perfectly  realized  in  any  English  fiction,  but  approached  occasionally  by 
some  of  Bulwer's,  Thackeray's, "  George  Eliot's,"  and  Charles  Kingsley's  creations  ; 
and  (13)  The  Historical  Novel,  as  seen  in  the  works  of  Scott,  G.  P.  R.  James,  Godwin, 
Bulwer,  Horace  Smith,  Ainsworth,  Kingsley,  Thackeray,  Dickens,  Lockhart,  Collins, 
and  many  others. 


56  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

These  varieties  do  not  exhaust  all  the  forms  under  which  fiction 
has  displayed  itself,  but  they  must  suffice  for  the  purposes  of  our 
sketch. 

In  order  to  properly  comprehend  the  origin  and  growth  of  this 
wonderful  flowering  in  the  domain,  not  of  fiction  only,  but  of  lit- 
erature generally,  it  will  be  necessary  to  turn  again  our  attention  to 
the  political  and  social  events  that  were  transpiring  in  Europe 
during  these  years  of  modern  literary  activity. 

The  doctrines  of  popular  sovereignty,  of  democratic  and  con- 
stitutional government,  of  religious  toleration,  and  of  free  thought 
and  speech,  which  had  gained  considerable  ascendancy  during  the 
Revolution  of  1789  and  for  a  brief  period  thereafter,  received  a 
serious  check  by  the  formation,  in  1815,  of  that  imperial  partner- 
ship called  the  Holy  Alliance.  Under  color  of  promoting  brotherly 
love,  and  of  maintaining  religion,  peace,  and  justice  throughout 
Europe,  this  Alliance,  for  a  time,  succeeded  in  ignoring  all  love, 
but  infatuation  for  the  sovereign ;  all  religion,  but  conformity  to 
the  prescribed  one;  all  peace,  but  supine  submission  to  author- 
ity; and  all  justice,  but  acquiescence  in  the  prerogatives  of  the 
despot. 

But  while  princes  and  their  aristocratic  minions  were  bent  on 
securing  the  permanency  of  monarchical  institutions,  the  people 
very  generally  directed  their  efforts  toward  inaugurating  consti- 
tutional governments.  All  over  the  Continent,  constitutionalism 
made  its  inroads  and  celebrated  its  triumphs.  The  prerogatives  of 
monarchs,  hierarchs,  and  nobility,  heretofore  allowed  as  inherent 
and  indefeasible,  were  now  called  in  question,  weighed  in  the 
balance  of  common  sense,  and  largely  abridged,  the  surplus  being 
found  to  legitimately  belong  to  the  middle  and  lower  classes  of 
society.  Government  was  redefined;  the  idea  that  it  was  a  mutual 
compact  between  sovereign  and  subject,  in  which  each  reserved  as 
inviolable  certain  privileges,  supplanting  the  former  notion  that 
the  one  was  born  to  govern  and  the  other  to  be  governed. 

Among  the  rights  claimed  by  the  people  were  those  of  freedom 
of  speech  and  of  conscience,  and  participation  in  legislative  and 
judicial  proceedings.  In  some  quarters  —  indeed,  by  a  few  earnest 
souls  in  all  quarters  —  the  very  existence  of  an  hereditary  ruler 
and  privileged  classes  was  regarded  as  absurd  and  intolerable;  and 
the  democratic  idea,  that  the  people  were  by  sacred  right  their  own 
rulers,  was  boldly  proclaimed  and  heroically  contended  for.  Nay, 
in  the  heat  of  their  zeal  for  popular  rights,  it  was  declared  by  the 
most  ultra  —  the  Communists  and  Socialists  of  France  —  that  all 
men  were  socially  and  pecuniarily  equal ;  and  that  therefore  there 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  57 

should  be  a  leveling  of  all  distinctions  between  classes,  and  an  equal 
distribution  of  property  and  labor. 

To  appreciate  the  social,  political,  religious,  and  intellectual  fer- 
ment, which  the  meeting  of  the  antagonistic  ideas  of  monarchists, 
constitutionalists,  and  red-republicans  produced,  one  need  only  to 
turn  to  the  history  of  Europe  during  the  first  half  of  the  present 
century.  Riots,  insurrections,  imprisonments,  banishments,  exe- 
cutions, assassinations,  and  sanguinary  wars,  as  revolting  in  extent 
and  degree  as  any  that  have  ever  fouled  the  pages  of  history,  mark 
with  tears  and  blood  the  steps  of  modern  European  progress. 

In  England,  owing  to  the  fact  that  many  of  the  reforms  agitated 
on  the  Continent  had  already  obtained, —  such  as  a  constitutional 
government,  liberty  of  the  press  and  speech,  and  religious  tolera- 
tion, and  owing  also  to  the  deliberate  and  conservative  temper  of 
the  people, — these  political  commotions  operated  with  comparative 
moderation.  And  yet  did  they  operate  with  sufficient  influence 
to  keep  the  minds  of  the  British  people  alive  to  their  peculiar 
interests. 

As  a  result  of  the  long  contest  with  France,  English  capital,  and 
as  a  natural  consequence  the  land,  had  gradually  passed  into  the 
hands  of  the  aristocracy.  Manufactures,  and  commerce  too,  were 
monopolized  by  a  few  princely  capitalists.  Taxation  upon  all 
articles  of  trade,  necessaries  of  life,  houses  and  lands,  and  heavy 
levies  to  sustain  an  extravagant  court,  fell  grievously  upon  the 
middle  and  rapidly  increasing  lower  orders  of  the  people.  But 
hard  upon  the  heels  of  these  abuses  followed  the  avenging  "  Char- 
tists," who  demanded  universal  suffrage,  yearly  parliaments,  and 
vote  by  ballot.  A  relaxation  of  some  of  the  more  pressing  grievances 
checked  and  tempered  for  the  time  being  this  popular  outbreak ; 
but  by  degrees,  and  through  the  persistent  and  rational  efforts  of 
the  people,  its  original  demands  have,  in  these  later  years,  come  to 
be  conceded  almost  to  the  letter.  To-day,  even  by  virtue  of  what 
has  been  already  attained,  to  say  nothing  of  what  present  grand 
movements  looking  to  universal  suffrage  and  popular  education 
speedily  portend,  England  stands  confessed  before  the  world  as  the 
least  monarchical, —  and  to  put  it  positively, —  the  most  democratic, 
of  all  monarchies. 

Without  attempting  to  particularize,  we  may  indicate  in  a  gen- 
eral way  how  the  political  and  social  events  just  sketched  modi- 
fied, indeed,  revolutionized,  contemporary  literature.  Their  effects 
are  best  shown  in  the  prose  fiction  of  the  past  half  century. 

One  class  of  novelists,  like  Thackeray,  has  bent  its  energies  to 
exposing  the  shams  and  corruption  of  titled  life;  another,  like 


58  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Dickens,  to  bringing  to  light  and  to  eliciting  public  sympathy  and 
alleviation  for  the  condition  of  the  poor  and  seemingly  vicious. 
Both  would  look  on  humanity,  whether  clad  in  purple  and  fine 
linen  or  in  filthy  rags,  and  appraise  it  as  noble  or  mean  according 
to  its  inherent  possessions.  Character  and  conduct,  according  to 
their  measurement,  and  not  accidents  of  birth  or  helps  of  fortune, 
make  the  man  a  man,  and  therefore  eminent  above  all  accessories, 
or  a  brute,  and  therefore  groveling  in  spite  of  all  accessories. 

Other  novelists  have  preferred  exposing  political  or  social  or  ju- 
dicial abuses,  as  exemplified  in  existing  institutions  and  usages, 
and  have  thus  made  themselves  the  propagandists  of  reform  meas- 
ures. This  they  have  done  not  by  argument  or  lampoon,  but  by 
a  faithful,  particular,  and  lively  portraiture  of  the  evils  and  evil- 
doers. As  specimens  of  this  species  of  fiction,  we  may  name, 
Alton  Locke,  Felix  Holt,  Nicholas  Nickleby,  Bleak  House,  Hard  Times, 
and  Little  Dorritt. 

Still  another  sort  of  novelists  is  met  with  in  the  delineators  of 
provincial  life  and  manners.  Yorkshire  has  had  its  artist  in  Miss 
Bronte,  Lancashire  in  Mrs.  Gaskell,  and  Devonshire  in  Mr.  Kings- 
ley,  not  to  speak  of  writers  who,  like  Dickens,  have  delineated  the 
types  of  several  non-metropolitan  parts. 

In  considering  these  various  species  of  fiction,  it  is  interesting, 
too,  to  note  how  largely  public  events  and  actors  have  been  allowed 
to  suggest  incidents  and  furnish  characters.  In  these  writings,  no 
less  prominently  than  in  works  of  history  and  biography,  we  meet 
with  political  conspiracies,  club-meetings,  and  riots  and  strikes 
among  workingmen;  and  we  have  such  characters  as  the  Socialist, 
the  Foreign  Refugee,  the  Red  Eepublican,  the  Government  Spy, 
the  Chartist  Orator,  the  Strong-Minded  Woman,  the  Jesuit,  the 
Roman  Catholic  Priest,  the  High-Church  Parson,  the  Broad-Church 
Parson,  the  Low-Church  Parson,  the  Dissenting  Preacher,  the 
Methodist,  the  Materialist,  the  Spiritualist,  the  Positivist,  the  Whig, 
the  Tory,  and  all  the  rest.  Mixing  with  these  realistic  elements, 
in  a  disguise  more  or  less  complete,  we  find  a  marked  effort  on 
the  part  of  not  a  few  of  these  modern  novelists  to  inculcate  phil- 
osophical or  political  or  religious  theories, — the  rationalism,  social- 
ism, positivism,  whigism,  toryism,  or  republicanism,  of  their  pecu- 
liar liking. 

Reviewing,  now,  what  has  been  already  presented,  and  allow- 
ing for  the  much  more  that  with  ampler  space  might  have  been 
presented,  are  we  not  bound  to  confess  that  surely  we  have  fallen 
upon  a  realistic  literature, —  one  worthy  in  every  lineament  of  its 
eminently  human  countenance  of  the  age  that  has  given  it  birth, — 
the  realistic  nineteenth  century? 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  59 

Another  fact  that  may  not  be  omitted  from  this  sketch  of  the 
literary  peculiarities  of  the  present  century  is  the  preponderance  of 
fiction  not  only  over  every  other  species  of  composition,  but  over  all 
other  species  combined.  And  this  preponderance  consists  not  alone 
in  the  superior  bulk  of  this  sort  of-writing,  but  in  the  surpassing 
interest  it  enlists.  What  the  drama  was  to  Elizabethan  times,  and 
the  essay  and  didactic  poem  to  the  age  of  Anne,  that  the  novel  has 
come  to  be  in  this  Victorian  age.* 

Modern  History.— The  questioning,  sifting,  judicial  spirit, 
which,  as  we  have  already  noticed,  had  so  largely  entered  into  the 
political  and  social  movements  of  the  present  century,  and  which 
has  so  thoroughly  convulsed  and  transformed  the  old  order  of 
things,  has,  with  equal  influence,  operated  upon  modern  histor- 
ical writing.  Far  from  accepting  immemorial  statements  as  au- 
thentic, it  persists  ir  examining  anew  the  grounds  of  evidence  for 
such  statements.  With  the  same  temerity  with  which  it  had 
weighed  the  crowns  of  monarchs,  the  hats  of  bishops,  and  the 
badges  of  hereditary  and  assumed  agents  of  authority  generally, 
in  the  balances  of  equity  and  common  sense,  it  also  challenges  the 
time-honored  and  pretentious  authority  of  works  called  histories. 
So  rigid  in  treatment  is  this  spirit,  that  it  insists  on  excluding  from 
the  pale  of  evidence  —  at  least  so  far  as  profane  history  is  con- 
cerned—  every  supernatural  element;  and  it  persists  in  regarding 
men,  in  all  ages  of  the  world,  as  having  been  swayed  by  the  prompt- 
ings of  a  human  nature  fundamentally  the  same. 

And  its  audacity  is  equaled  only  by  its  unweariedness  of  investiga- 
tion. It  takes  up  author  after  author  of  those  previously  regarded 


*  "  That  the  novel  is  popular  at  present,  we  know ;  that  there  is  a  sufficient  reason 
for  this  popularity,  we  also  know ;  and  this  sufficient  reason  is  not  very  difficult  to 
discover.  First,  then,  it  may  be  premised  that  our  most  esteemed  novels  concern 
themselves  with  delineations  of  modern  life,  and  that  modern  life,  in  virtue  of  our 
immersion  in  it,  and  the  complexity  of  its  relations,  can  be  represented  more  fully 
and  satisfactorily  by  prose  than  through  the  higher  medium  of  verse. 

"  The  novel  is  the  mirror  in  which  society  looks,  in  order  that  she  may  become 
acquainted  with  her  own  countenance.  The  provinces  of  prose  and  verse  may  be 
very  strictly  denned.  Verse  can  deal  with  the  tent  of  Achilles,  prose  with  the  mod- 
ern drawing-room  or  dining-table.  When  men  and  women  fell  in  love,  as  they  did 
in  the  old  ballads,  verse  could  not,  with  all  its  resources,  overdo  the  delights  or 
agonies  of  the  passion.  When  people  fall  in  love  as  they  do  at  this  age  of  the  world, 
when  the  passion  is  clogged  and  embarrassed  by  marriage  settlements,  when  the 
lawyer  has  as  much  to  do  with  the  union  of  lovers  as  Cupid,  we  see  at  once  that  the 
time  for  the  epithalamium  is  gone,  and  that  verse  cannot  assist  at  the  bridal. 

"  Another  reason  for  the  popularity  of  the  modern  novel  may  be  found  in  the 
advance  of  prose  during  the  last  century  as  a  medium  of  expression, — 'that  other 
harmony  of  prose,'  as  Dry  den  called  it,  with  a  far  reaching  gleam  into  its  capabilities. 
We  do  not  write  verse  so  supremely  now  as  Shakespeare-  and  his  companions  did, 
but  as  a  whole  we  write  prose  better."— North  British  Review,  February,  1863. 


60  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

as  reliable,  carefully  compares  their  several  statements  upon  every 
point ;  these  again  it  compares  with  the  allusions  of  contemporary 
literature,  with  the  evidence  of  existing  monuments,  with  inscrip- 
tions found  upon  exhumed  and  ancient  works  of  art,  and  these 
again  with  the  subtle  testimony  of  languages  and  dialects.  What 
remains  unprecipitated  by  this  series  of  tests  is  recognized  and 
named  as  historical  truth,  all  the  rest  is  thrown  away  as  the  sedi- 
ment of  fable. 

And  as  we  have  seen  that  this  iconoclastic  and  critical  spirit,  in 
its  political  development,  had  its  origin  in  Western  Europe,  so  now 
we  are  called  upon  to  note  that,  in  its  historical  development  also, 
it  owns  a  Continental  origin.  The  most  eminent  and  successful  of 
its  earliest  expositors  was  Niebuhr.  In  his  History  of  Rome,  the 
first  volume  of  which  was  published  in  Germany  in  1811,  he  showed 
that  much  of  what  is  recorded  by  Livy  as  historical  truth  is,  in 
reality,  pure  legend  and  myth  ;  and  that  many  of  the  long-accepted 
and  marvelous  stories  concerning  the  seven  kings  are  simply 
poetic  fictions. 

The  courageous,  truth-seeking,  and  truth- speaking  spirit  of  this 
pioneer  of  genuine  historical  writing  appeared  shortly  afterward, 
in  England,  in  the  persons  of  Dr.  Thomas  Arnold,  Bishop  Thirl- 
wall,  and  George  Grote.  The  first,  by  his  History  of  Rome,  accom- 
plished for  English  students  what  Niebuhr  had  for  German.  The 
record,  however,  which  was  conducted  in  pure  and  vigorous  Eng- 
lish through  three  volumes,  was  broken  off  at  the  end  of  the  sec- 
ond Punic  War  by  the  death  of  its  author.  The  others  have  each 
written  a  History  of  Greece,  which  are  not  more  remarkable  for  the 
thorough  acquaintance  with  sources  of  information  they  evince 
and  their  sympathetic  treatment,  than  for  their  rigid  elimination 
of  all  matters  suspected  as  fabulous  or  legendary,  and  for  the  un- 
strained and  common-sense  view  they  take  of  men  and  events. 

By  these  writers — with  whom  also  we  must  not  fail  to  associate 
Sir  George  Lewis,  author  of  An  Inquiry  into  the  Credibility  of  the 
early  Roman  History — "the  old  times,  which  were  ignorantly  ad- 
mired and  extravagantly  lauded,  have  been  carefully  measured  by 
what  we  know  of  the  workings  of  the  human  nature  to-day.  The 
institutions,  the  principles,  the  passions,  the  aims  and  the  achieve- 
ments of  such  men  as  Pericles  and  Alcibiades,  of  Cicero  and 
Seneca,  of  Catiline  and  the  Caesars,  have  been  examined,  not  under 
the  colored  lights  of  blind  admiration,  nor  by  the  weird  lights  of 
myth-making  credulity,  nor  the  false  lights  of  blind  or  lying  parti- 
sanship, but  by  the  dry  and  white  light  which  is  reflected  from  the 
aims,  principles,  and  passions  of  men  in  similar  circumstances  in 
modern  times — the  good  men  not  being  over  good  for  human 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  61 

nature,  and  the  bad  not  so  much,  and  so  desperately,  worse 
than  the  very  bad  of  later  times.  In  short,  the  historian  has 
learned  to  measure  the  ancient  world  by  the  modern  world,  in- 
stead of  by  an  extravagant  and  distorted  creation  of  his  own 
bewildered  imagination  and  his  excited  fancy ;  because  the  mod- 
ern is  known  to  be  the  actual  world,  and  as  such  illustrates  those 
permanent  laws  and  forces  of  humanity  by  which  alone  all  his- 
tory, whether  old  or  recent,  can  be  rationally  estimated  and 
judged."* 

Another  characteristic  of  modern  historical  writing  is  its  philan- 
thropy, so  to  speak,  and  breadth  of  treatment.  It  concerns  itself  not 
with  the  so-called  great  men  alone, — the  conquerors,  kings,  states- 
men, and  literati, — nor  yet  with  the  aristocratic  and  governing 
classes  merely,  nor  again  with  revolutionary  events  simply,  but 
it  represents  as  well  the  doings  and  feelings  of  the  middling  and 
lower  classes  of  society,  and  pictures  the  march  of  civic  and  social 
reforms.  It  essays  to  reproduce  before  the  modern  mind  a  partic- 
ular, vivid,  and  accurate  panorama  of  the  whole  life  of  the  past, — 
its  court  life,  its  serf  and  peasant  and  citizen  life,  its  external  con- 
quests and  its  domestic  economies,  its  notions  and  usages  of  gov- 
ernment and  religion,  its  attitude  as  respects  the  sciences,  arts, 
and  refinements  and  industries  generally  of  a  civilized  state,  and 
its  peculiar  and  transmitted  influence. 

In  this  pictorial  attempt,  the  modern  historian  finds  exercise 
not  only  for  an  unusual  industry  and  energy,  but  a  legitimate 
scope  also  for  his  imagination, — an  imagination  that  not,  as  for- 
merly, creates  and  embellishes  out  of  its  own  unsubstantial  and 
fantastic  fabrics,  but  which  simply  fills  out  to  their  original  pro- 
portions and  invests  with  pristine  color,  warmth,  and  action  the 
skeletons  and  fossils  of  the  past. 

But  the  modern  method  would  not  stop  here.  However  much 
it  may  have  accomplished  by  an  expurgation  of  illusory  elements, 
by  a  comprehensive  and  systematic  collocation  of  authentic  ma- 
terials, and  by  a  graphic  style,  it  would  aspire  to  one  more  attain- 
ment, namely,  the  discovery  of  a  philosophy  of  human  conduct.  The 
material  universe  displays  to  our  view  a  countless  variety  of  phe- 
nomena. Formerly,  when  science  was  in  its  cradle,  or  had  not 
been  born,  to  each  of  these  phenomena  there  was  assigned  a  special 
cause  or  agent.  As  science  advanced,  these  phenomena  came  to 
be  gathered  into  little  groups,  each  group  claiming  a  cause  com- 
mon to  every  member  of  it.  Then  these  groups  came  to  be 
merged  a  number  of  them  into  one,  and  these  more  general  ones 

*  Books  and  Reading,  by  Noah  Porter,  D.D.,  LL.D. 


62  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

finally  into  other  fewer  and  still  more  comprehensive,  until  at 
the  present  Btage  of  scientific  knowledge  it  is  ascertained  that  a 
few  grand  causes  underlie  all  physical  phenomena. 

Now,  a  similar  method  of  generalization  the  modern  historian 
would  apply  to  the  facts  and  incidents  of  human  life.  He  would 
regard  all  the  individual  and  national  events  of  the  past  as  so  many 
social  and  moral  phenomena,  susceptible  of  classification  under 
the  grasp  and  control  of  a  few  great  human  principles  or  laws. 
He  believes  it  to  be  his  province,  not  only  to  narrate  truthfully, 
graphically,  and  exhaustively  the  events  of  the  past,  but  to  pene- 
trate into  the  very  feelings  and  thoughts  of  their  actors,  and  there 
ascertain  the  motives  and  influences  which  impelled  them,  and 
then,  by  classifying  these  agencies,  finally  to  derive,  as  it  were,  a 
general  law  of  human  action. 

Of  course,  different  historians,  according  to  the  number  of  the 
agencies  they  recognize,  and  their  admitted  individual  importance 
and  mutual  harmony,  arrive  at  different  conclusions  respecting 
the  same  historical  events;  but  that  broad,  underlying  agencies  of 
human  action  have  operated,  and  are  now  operating  in  society,  all 
admit,  and  all  are  bent  on  discovering.  Some,  like  Draper,  have 
thought  that  they  had  found  the  secret  of  human  conduct  in 
physiological  phenomena, — atmospheric  and  chemical  agencies 
being  the  great  excitants ;  some,  like  Buckle,  have  conceived  men 
as  the  victims  of  gigantic  material  laws,  which,  fate-like,  constrain 
them  for  good  or  for  evil ;  on  the  contrary,  some,  like  Froude, 
credit  human  liberty,  caprice,  and  passion  with  the  responsibility; 
and  others  again,  like  Arnold  and  Goldwin  Smith,  recognize  above 
all  the  heterogeneities  of  human  conduct  the  presidence  of  a  uni- 
fying and  beneficent  Deity. 

Among  the  leading  writers  who  have  exemplified  more  or  less 
fully  the  foregoing  methods  of  modern  historical  treatment,  we 
may  name,  in  addition  to  those  already  mentioned,  Lord  Macaulay, 
Thomas  Carlyle,  Henry  Hallam,  Adam  Smith,  Sir  James  Mackin- 
tosh, Sir  Archibald  Alison,  H.  H.  Milman,  Geo.  Rawlinson,  Sir 
Francis  Palgrave,  E.  A.  Freeman,  and  Robert  Vaughan. 

Modern  Periodical  Literature. — The  student  of  current  Eng- 
lish literature  cannot  fail  of  being  impressed  by  the  number,  vari- 
ety, and  special  excellence  of  its  periodical  publications.  Quarter- 
lies, Monthlies,  Fortnightlies,  Weeklies,  and  Dailies  fairly  compass 
him  with  their  proffered  services,  great  or  small,  grave  or  gay. 
Were  it  certain  that  Alfred  the  Great  had  instituted  this  species  of 
literature,  and  that  every  royal  patron  of  letters  and  every  eminent 
writer,  through  all  the  intervening  centuries,  had  promoted  the 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  63 

movement,  even  then  there  would  be  room  for  congratulation  on  its 
present  flourishing  state;  but  when  it  is  known  that,  with  a  very 
Sew  exceptions  on  the  part  of  daily  newspapers,  all  these  periodi- 
cal publications — we  mean  those  now  publishing — have  sprung 
up  within  the  limits  of  the  present  century,  it  becomes  a  matter  of 
the  profoundest  astonishment,  and  the  fact  stamps  the  present  age 
as  the  epoch  of  English  prose  writing. 

The  earliest  of  these  periodicals  was  The  Edinburgh  Review.  It 
was  founded  in  1802,  by  Sydney  Smith,  Francis  Jeffrey,  Henry 
Brougham,  and  Francis  Homer.  Its  tone,  whether  in  questions 
of  politics,  religion,  or  literature,  was  bold  and  independent.  It 
opposed  the  political  views  and  measures  of  the  existing  adminis- 
tration, and,  rejecting  all  precedent  and  time-honored  authority, 
discussed  anew  questions  of  theology,  literature,  and  aesthetics. 
To  counteract — more  especially  the  political — so-called  heresies 
of  The  Edinburgh,  the  friends  of  constitutional  integrity  established 
in  London,  in  1809,  The  Quarterly  Review,  with  William  Gifford,  and 
shortly  afterward  John  G.  Lockhart,  as  editor.  With  a  like 
design,  Blackwood's  Magazine  was  originated  in  1817,  in  Edinburgh. 
This  magazine  was  fortunate  in  numbering  among  its  earliest 
contributors  John  Wilson  and  John  G.  Lockhart,  who  brought  to 
its  pages  a  brilliancy,  versatility,  and  piquancy  that  secured  it 
immediate  prominence. 

Of  the  eminent  writers  who  have,  from  time  to  time,  contributed 
to  the  above  periodicals,  we  may  name,  omitting  those  named  be- 
fore, Mackintosh,  Carlyle,  Macaulay,  Talfourd,  Scott,  Hogg,  Words- 
worth, Lamb,  Coleridge,  De  Quincey,  Alison,  Bulwer,  Jerrold, 
Lander,  Aytoun,  Hazlitt,  Moir,  and  Croker.  Following  the  lead 
of  the  foregoing  periodicals,  there  has  gradually  sprung  up  a  large 
number  of  like  publications  of  greater  or  less  authority  in  the  realm 
of  letters.  Such  are  TJie  Westminster  Review,  TJie  North  British  Re- 
view, The  Dublin  Review,  The  Contemporary  Review,  The  Fortnightly 
Review,  The  British  Quarterly  Review,  Erasers  Magazine,  Macmillan's 
Magazine,  Cornhill  Magazine,  and  Dublin  University  Magazine.  Many 
others  of  a  lighter  and  more  popular  character  might  be  enume- 
rated. 

The  Reviews  are  devoted  to  thoughtful  and  critical  writings. 
They  are  made  up  of  dissertations  upon  current  political,  religious, 
social,  scientific,  and  sesthetical  questions,  and  of  criticisms  upon 
past  and  contemporary  literature.  Their  contributors  comprise 
the  ripest  scholars  and  acutest  thinkers  of  the  day,  as  is  evidenced 
by  the  profound,  elaborate,  and  discriminating  character  of  the 
articles  presented.  The  style  of  these  writings  is  also  worthy  of 
notice.  The  eliminating,  incisive,  truth-discerning  spirit,  which, 


64  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

as  we  have  seen,  with  the  historians  worked  the  rejection  of  all 
mere  gloss  of  narration,  with  these  reviewers  and  essayists,  operates 
in  the  rejection  of  extravagance  of  statement  and  meretricious 
ornamentation.  Precision,  strength,  and  fullness  of  statement  are 
sought  after,  mere  declamation  and  sonorous  verbiage  being  de- 
spised. 

The  Magizines,  while  they  partake,  in  a  measure,  of  the  char- 
acteristics just  noticed,  embody  also  the  lighter  elements  of  litera- 
ture. They  include  the  musings  of  poets,  the  imaginings  of  ro- 
mancists,  and  the  picturesque  narratives  of  travelers.  The  poetical 
and  fictitious  writings  of  not  a  few  of  the  leading  modern  English 
authors  made  their  first  appearance,  piecemeal,  in  the  monthly  or 
weekly  magazine.  The  style  of  these  writings  is  adapted  to  their 
peculiar  matter ;  the  grave,  logical,  elaborate,  sententious  manner 
of  the  Review  giving  place  to  a  lightsome,  flowing,  naive,  and  ornate 
expression. 

Modern  Philosophy,  Tlieology,  and  Science. — Did  it  come 
within  the  province  of  a  work  of  the  special  and  cursory  nature  of 
the  present  to  follow  into  all  its  branchings  this  luxuriant  spirit  of 
the  present  age,  it  would  be  easy  to  discover  its  peculiar  florescence 
in  the  fields  of  Philosophy,  Theology,  Science,  and  Art.  It  may 
not  be  amiss,  however,  to  bestow  a  passing  glance  upon  these. 

The  realistic  and  practical  elements  which  we  have  noticed  as 
entering  so  markedly  into  modern  poetry,  fiction,  history,  and  prose 
writing  generally,  have  become  significant  elements  also  in  the 
philosophic,  theologic,  scientific,  and  aBsthetical  speculations  of 
the  age.  Controversy  has  been,  in  a  great  measure,  shifted  from 
abstract  to  concrete  grounds.  Mental  and  psychological  phe- 
nomena now  claim  less  attention  than  historical  and  physical  data. 
Man's  sphere  of  knowledge  is  sought  to  be  extended  rather  by  in- 
crease of  sensible  facts,  by  larger  and  better  acquaintance  with  the 
material  universe,  than  by  refinements  in  metaphysics.  Philosophy 
and  Science  have  both  shaken  off  the  long-conceded,  hereditary 
authority  of  Theology,  and  now  claim  a  perfect  right  to  pursue 
their  investigations  and  discussions,  and  to  draw  their  conclusions, 
independently.  A  severely' critical  and  skeptical  spirit  has  pos- 
sessed all,  compelling  the  theologian,  with  the  zeal  and  candor  of 
a  first  investigator,  to  a  re-examination  of  the  grounds  of  his  ortho- 
doxy , — the  authenticity  and  genuineness  of  Scriptural  records,  and 
the  scientist,  no  less  zealously,  to  a  scrutiny  of  the  old  and  a  search 
for  the  new  of  physical  phenomena.  "What  is  truth?"  is  the 
overmastering  demand,  and  to  apprehend  and  comprehend  it,  at 
the  sacrifice,  if  need  be,  of  every  cherished  dogma  of  the  past,  the 
heroic  endeavor. 


HISTORICAL  SKETCH.  65 

In  the  van  of  these  modern  crusaders, — conservatism  would  say 
filibusters,— as  representing,  variously,  mental  philosophy,  march 
James  Mill,  John  S.  Mill,  and  G.  H.  Lewes ;  as  representing  theology, 
F.  W.  Newman,  Rowland  Williams,  Bishop  Colenso,  Dean  Stanley, 
Prof.  Seeley,  and  James  Martineau  ;  as  representing  science,  Thomas 
Huxley,  Charles  Darwin,  Herbert  Spencer,  and  John  Tyndall.* 

This  modern  spirit  of  inquiry,  if  not  originated,  has  certainly 
been  fostered  by  the  immense  increase  in  facilities  for  investiga- 
tion afforded  by  the  present  century.  The  sciences  of  geology, 
analytical  chemistry,  comparative  anatomy,  biology,  philology, 
archaeology,  and  kindred  branches,  aided  by  improved  mechan- 
ical a'ppliances,  have  prodigiously  enlarged  the  boundaries  of  hu- 
man knowledge.  In  this  general  and  thorough  quest,  stones  have 
been  upturned,  skeletons  exhumed,  manuscripts  discovered,  imple- 
ments of  aboriginal  tribes  unearthed,  strata  explored,  and  ele- 
mental compounds  analyzed,  that  have  yielded,  sometimes  con- 
firmatory, sometimes  contradictory,  and  sometimes  ambiguous, 
but  always  interesting,  testimony. 

Did  it  come  within  the  limited  province  of  the  present  work  to 
note  the  effects  of  the  distinctive  influences  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury— more  especially  those  of  the  third  quarter  of  the  century — 
upon  the  oratorical,  critical,  and  sasthetical  literature  of  the  day, 
much  might  be  added  to  the  foregoing.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that 
these  departments,  no  less  than  those  already  particularized,  have 
been  permeated  and  remolded  by  the  potent  leaven  of  the  age.f 

*  Of  writers  whose  views,  in  their  several  spheres  of  thought,  have  kept  closer  to 
the  landmarks  of  general  belief,  we  may  name,  of  philosophers,  Dugald  Stewart, 
Thomas  Brown,  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  Sir  William  Hamilton,  and  J.  D.  Morell ;  of 
theologians,  J.  H.  Newman,  Cardinal  Wiseman,  Archbishop  Manning,  Dr.  Pusey, 
Robert  Hall,  Thomas  Chalmers,  F.  W.  Robertson.  H.  L.  Mansel,  William  Thomson, 
Archbishop  Whately,  G.  S.  Faber,  Dean  Trench,  J.  B.  Lightfoot,  Dean  Alford,  C.  H. 
Spurgeon,  John  Gumming,  F.  W,  Farrar,  and  Prof.  Fairbairn;  of  scientists,  Sir  John 
Herschel,  Sir  David  Brewster,  Michael  Faraday,  Hugh  Miller,  William  Whewell, 
Richard  Owen,  Sir  Charles  Lyell,  and  J.  H.  Stirling. 

t  A  few  of  the  best  known  names  in  these  several  departments  are,  of  orators, 
George  Canning,  Lord  Brougham.  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  Daniel  O'Connell,  Richard 
L.  Sheil,  Sir  Robert  Peel,  Lord  John  Russell,  Lord  Macaulay,  Lord  Stanley,  Lord 
Palmerston,  Richard  Cobden,  Lord  Lyndhurst,  Earl  Grey,  Mr.  Bright,  Mr.  T.  Milner 
Gibson,  Mr.  Roebuck,  Rev.  Hugh  McNeile,  Benjamin  Disraeli,  Mr.  Gladstone;  of 
critical  writers,  Isaac  Disraeli,  Nathan  Drake,  Matthew  Arnold,  R.  A.  Vaughan, 
David  Masson,  and  J.  C.  Shairp ;  of  writers  on  art,  A.  W.  Lindsay,  Mrs.  Jameson,  C. 
L.  Eastlake,  and  John  Ruskin ;  of  philologists,  R.  C.  Trench,  Max  Miiller,  F.  W.  Far- 
rar, and  Dean  Alford. 

6*  E 


REPRESENTATIVE  ENGLISH  WRITERS. 


ALFRED   TENNYSON. 


Not  of  the  howling  dervishes  of  song, 

Who  craze  the  brain  with  their  delirious  dance, 
Art  thou,  0  sweet  historian  of  the  heart ! 

Therefore  to  thee  the  laurel-leaves  belong, 
To  thee  our  love  and  our  allegiance, 
For  thy  allegiance  to  the  poet's  art. 

— LONGFELLOW. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON  was  born  at  Sornersby,  in  Lincolnshire, 
England,  in  1809.  His  poetical  bent  and  talent  announced 
themselves  while  he  was  yet  a  student  at  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  where,  in  1829,  he  won  the  Chancellor's  medal 
by  his  blank  verse  poem  of  Timbuctoo.  The  next  year, 
being  still  an  undergraduate,  he  published  a  volume  entitled 
Poems,  chiefly  Lyrical.  Three  years  later  (1833)  appeared 
another  volume  of  Poems,  which  included  as  its  gems,  "  Mari- 
ana in  the  South,"  "  The  Palace  of  Art,"  "  A  Dream  of  Fair 
Women,"  and  "The  May  Queen."  A  period  of  nine  years 
passed  before  the  next  volume  appeared.  In  this  were  presented 
"  Morte  D'Arthur,"  "  Locksley  Hall,"  "  Godiva,"  "Dora," 
"  Lady  Clara  Vere  De  Vere,"  and  other  poems.  In  1847,  The 
Princess,  a  Medley,  was  issued.  This  "  is  a  fairy  tale  as  senti- 
mental as  those  of  Shakespeare.  Tennyson  here  thought  and 
felt  like  a  young  knight  of  the  Renaissance.  The  mark  of  this 
kind  of  mind  is  a  superabundance,  as  it  were,  a  superfluity  of  sap. 
In  the  character  of  the  Princess,  as  in  those  of  As  You  Like  It, 
there  is  an  over-fullness  of  fancy  and  emotion.  They  have  re- 
course, to  express  their  thought,  to  all  ages  and  lands;  they 
carry  speech  to  the  most  reckless  rashness ;  they  clothe  and 
burden  every  idea  with  a  sparkling  image,  which  drags  and 

66 


TENNYSON.  67 


glitters  upon  it  like  a  brocade  clustered  with  jewels.  They 
are  excessive,  refined,  ready  to  weep,  laugh,  adore,  jest,  inclined 
to  mingle  adoration  and  jests,  urged  by  a  nervous  rapture  to 
contrasts,  and  even  extremes.  To  satisfy  the  subtlety  and  su- 
perabundance of  their  originality,  they  need  fairy  tales  and 
masquerades.  In  fact,  the  Princess  is  both."*  From  the  Pro- 
logue of  this  poem  we  extract  the  following  passage : 

All  within 

The  sward  was  trim  as  any  garden  lawn : 
And  here  we  lit  on  Aunt  Elizabeth, 
And  Lilia  with  the  rest,  and  lady  friends 
From  neighbor  seats :  and  there  was  Ralph  himself, 
A  broken  statue  propt  against  the  wall, 
As  gay  as  any. 

Lilia,  wild  with  sport, 

Half  child,  half  woman,  as  she  was,  had  wound 
A  scarf  of  orange  round  the  stony  helm, 
And  robed  the  shoulders  in  a  rosy  silk, 
That  made  the  old  warrior  from  his  ivied  nook 
Glow  like  a  sunbeam :  near  his  tomb  a  feast 
Shone,  silver-set ;  about  it  lay  the  guests, 
And  there  we  joined  them :  then  the  maiden  Aunt 
Took  this  fair  day  for  text,  and  from  it  preached 
An  universal  culture  for  the  crowd, 
And  all  things  great ;  but  we,  unworthier,  told 
Of  college :  he  had  climbed  across  the  spikes, 
And  he  had  squeezed  himself  betwixt  the  bars, 
And  he  had  breathed  the  Proctor's  dogs ;  and  one 
Discussed  his  tutor,  rough  to  common  men 
But  honeying  at  the  whisper  of  a  lord ; 
And  one  the  Master,  as  a  rogue  in  grain 
Veneered  with  sanctimonious  theory. 

But  while  they  talked,  above  their  heads  I  saw 
The  feudal  warrior  lady-clad  ;  which  brought 
My  book  to  mind ;  and  opening  this,  I  read 
Of  old  Sir  Ralph  a  page  or  two  that  rang 
With  tilt  and  tourney ;  then  the  tale  of  her 
That  drove  her  foes  with  slaughter  from  her  walls, 
And  much  I  praised  her  nobleness,  and  "  where  " 
Asked  Walter,  patting  Lilia's  head,  (she  lay 
Beside  him,)  "lives  there  such  a  woman  now?" 

*  Taine's  English  Literature,  Vol.  II. 


68  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Quick  answered  Lilia,  "  There  are  thousands  now 
Such  women,  but  convention  beats  them  down : 
It  is  but  bringing  up ;  no  more  than  that : 
You  men  have  done  it :  how  I  hate  you  all ! 
Ah,  were  I  something  great !  I  wish  I  were 
Some  mighty  poetess,  I  would  shame  you  then, 
That  love  to  keep  us  children !  O,  I  wish 
That  I  were  some  great  Princess,  I  would  build 
Far  off  from  men  a  college  like  a  man's, 
And  I  would  teach  them  all  that  men  are  taught ; 
We  are  twice  as  quick !  "  And  here  she  shook  aside 
The  hand  that  played  the  patron  with  her  curls. 

And  one  said,  smiling,  "  Pretty  were  the  sight 
If  our  old  halls  could  change  their  sex,  and  flaunt 
With  prudes  for  proctors,  dowagers  for  deans, 
And  sweet  girl-graduates  in  their  golden  hair. 
I  think  they  should  not  wear  our  rusty  gowns, 
But  move  as  rich  as  Emperor-moths,  or  Ealph 
Who  shines  so  in  the  corner ;  yet  I  fear, 
If  there  were  many  Lilias  in  the  brood, 
However  deep  you  might  embower  the  nest, 
Some  boy  would  spy  it." 

At  this  upon  the  sward 
She  tapt  her  tiny  silken-sandaled  foot : 
"  That 's  your  light  way ;  but  I  would  make  it  death 
For  any  male  thing  but  to  peep  at  us." 

Petulant  she  spoke,  and  at  herself  she  laughed ; 
A  rosebud  set  with  little  wilful  thorns, 
And  sweet  as  English  air  could  make  her,  she : 
But  Walter  hailed  a  score  of  names  upon  her, 
And  "  petty  Ogress,"  and  "  ungrateful  Puss," 
And  swore  he  longed  at  college,  only  longed, 
All  else  was  well,  for  she-society. 
They  boated  and  they  cricketed ;  they  talked 
At  wine,  in  clubs,  of  art,  of  politics ; 
They  lost  their  weeks ;  they  vext  the  souls  of  deans ; 
They  rode ;  they  betted ;  made  a  hundred  friends, 
And  caught  the  blossom  of  the  flying  terms, 
But  missed  the  mignonette  of  Vivian-place, 
The  little  hearth-flower  Lilia.    Thus  he  spoke, 
Part  banter,  part  affection. 

In  Memoriam — the  most  elaborate  and  tender  monody  in  the 
language — inspired  by  the  memory  of  Arthur  H.  Hallam,  his 
dearest  and  deceased  friend,  was  published  in  1850.  From  the 


TENNYSON.  69 


innumerable  passages  of  beauty  and  pathos  that  mark  the  poem 
we  cull  the  following : 

xcix. 

I  climb  the  hill:  from  end  to  end, 
Of  all  the  landscape  underneath, 
I  find  no  place  that  does  not  breathe 

Some  gracious  memory  of  my  friend; 

No  gray  old  grange,  or  lonely  fold, 

Or  low  morass  and  whispering  reed, 
Or  simple  stile  from  mead  to  mead, 

Or  sheep  walk  up  the  windy  wold; 

Nor  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  haw 
That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill, 
Nor  quarry  trenched  along  the  hill, 

And  haunted  by  the  wrangling  daw; 

Nor  runlet  tinkling  from  the  rock; 
Nor  pastoral  rivulet  that  swerves 
To  left  and  right  through  meadowy  curves, 

That  feed  the  mothers  of  the  flock ; 

But  each  has  pleased  a  kindred  eye, 
And  each  reflects  a  kindlier  day; 
And,  leaving  these,  to  pass  away, 

I  think  once  more  he  seems  to  die. 

c. 

Unwatched  the  garden  bough  shall  sway, 
The  tender  blossom  flutter  down, 
Unloved  that  beech  shall  gather  brown, 

This  maple  burn  itself  away; 

Unloved,  the  sunflower,  shining  fair, 

Ray  round  with  flames  her  disk  of  seed, 
And  many  a  rose-carnation  feed 

With  summer  spice  the  humming  air; 

Unloved,  by  many  a  sandy  bar, 

The  brook  shall  babble  down  the  plain, 
At  noon,  or  when  the  lesser  wain 

Is  twisting  round  the  polar  star; 

Uncared  for,  gird  the  windy  grove, 

And  flood  the  haunts  of  hern  and  crake; 
Or  into  silver  arrows  break 

The  sailing  moon  in  creek  and  cove; 


70  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Till  from  the  garden  and  the  wild 
A  fresh  association  blow, 
And  year  by  year  the  landscape  grow 

Familiar  to  the  stranger's  child ; 

As  year  by  year  the  laborer  tills 

His  wonted  glebe,  or  lops  the  glades ; 
And  year  by  year  our  memory  fades 

From  all  the  circle  of  the  hills. 

cxxv. 

Love  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King, 
And  in  his  presence  I  attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend, 

Which  every  hour  his  couriers  bring. 

Love  is  and  was  my  King  and  Lord, 
And  will  be,  though  as  yet  I  keep 
Within  his  court  on  earth,  and  sleep 

Encompassed  by  his  faithful  guard, 

And  hear  at  times  a  sentinel 

Who  moves  about  from  place  to  place 
And  whispers  to  the  worlds  of  space 

In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well. 

"  To  one  self-toned  lyre  is  every  successive  lay  sung ;  the  inspi- 
ration is  derived  but  from  one  source ;  and  from  the  fields  of  art, 
science,  and  philosophy,  the  poet  returns  to  his  home  of  love  in 
the  soul  of  his  friend.  Before  the  chords  vibrate  we  know  the 
sound  that  will  fall  on  the  ear,  but  the  sweetness  of  the  notes,  the 
earnest  truth  of  the  thought,  the  comprehensiveness  of  the  love, 
relieve  them  of  all  monotony.  United  to  every  emotion  of  joy  or 
grief  to  which  the  poet  gives  utterance,  is  the  pure  chrysolite  of 
his  love,  now  bright  as  day  ever  was  in  summer  clime,  now  shaded 
by  a  mist  of  tears."* 

The  year  1851  witnessed  our  poet's  coronation  as  Poet-Laureate, 
as  successor  to  Wordsworth.  Four  years  later  Maud  "  came  out  in 
its  originality  and  excellence  of  form,  in  its  truth  of  humanness, 
and  in  its  large  and  subtle  dramatic  unity;  came  out,  too,  decked 
in  a  new  guise  of  that  old  lyric  loveliness  always  the  salient  char- 
acteristic of  the  Laureate's  books. "f  Idyls  of  the  King,  comprising 
the  poems  of  "Enid,"  "Vivien,"  "Elaine,"  and  "Guinevere,"  ap- 

*  Westminster  Review,  Oct.,  1850. 

t  London  quarterly  Review,  April,  1870. 


TENNYSON.  71 


peared  in  1859.  These  "Idyls"  were  continued  in  the  volume 
The  Holy  Grail  and  Other  Poems,  published  in  1869,  and  com- 
pleted in  The  Last  Tournament  and  Gareth  and  Lynette,  published 
in  1872.  The  following  extract  is  taken  from  "The  Passing  of 
Arthur,"  the  same  poem  a  little  enlarged  which  we  before  noticed 
under  the  title  of  "  Morte  D'Arthur." 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea; 
Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fall'n  in  Lyonnesse  about  their  lord, 
King  Arthur:  then,  because  his  wound  was  deep, 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere: 
"The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.    Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep — the  men  I  loved.    I  think  that  wre 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 

"I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, — 

Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 

To  rule  once  more, — but  let  what  will  be,  be, 

I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 

That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 

Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 

Which  was  my  pride :  for  thou  rememberest  how 

In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 

Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 

Holding  the  sword — and  how  I  row'd  across 

And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king: 

And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 

In  after  time,  this  also  shall  be  known: 

But  now  delay  not:  take  Excalibur, 

And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere: 

Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 


72  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus, 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm. 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full, 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  word." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he  stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men, 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.    He,  stepping  down 
By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon, 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt: 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  sparks, 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewelry.    He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind, 
In  act  to  throw :  but  at  last  it  seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  water-flags, 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  king. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere : 
"Hast  thou  perform'd  my  mission  which  I  gave? 
What  'is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast  heard  ?  " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere: 
"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  pale: 
"Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and  thy  name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight: 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either  hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 


TENNYSON.  73 


Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere, 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix'd  in  thought; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt, 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud:  — 
"  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  earth, 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many  men."  .  .  . 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  king. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily: 
"What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast  heard?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 
"I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in  wrath: 
"Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted!    Woe  unto  me! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 
Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.    I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  iny  knights 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt; 
Either  for  lust  of  gold,  or  ttke  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence: 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd  the  sword, 
And  strongly  wheeFd  and  threw  it.    The  great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon, 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl'd  in  an  arch, 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
7 


74  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur: 
But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish' d  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere, 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  king. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker  breath : 
"Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out:  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or  seen?" 

The  above  description  is  given  as  reply. 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing  hard: 
"My  end  draws  nigh;  'tis  time  that  I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin ;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.    Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears, 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words, 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of  tombs.  ... 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath  them;  and  descending  they  were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream— by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold — and  from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 

Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  "  Place  me  in  the  barge," 
And  to  the  barge  they  came.    Then  those  three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  king,  and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  loosed  the  shatter'd  casque,  and  chafed  his  hands, 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud, 


TENNYSON.  75 


And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 

Striped  with  dark  blood:   for  all  his  face  was  white 

And  colorless,  and  like  the  withered  moon 

Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east; 

And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd  with  drops 

Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls — 

That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 

High  from  the  dais-throne — were  parch'd  with  dust; 

Or  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 

Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed  his  lips. 

So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  king; 

Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest, 

From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 

Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 

Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
"  Ah !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go  ? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  ROUND  TABLE  is  dissolved, 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds." 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the  barge: 
"  The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 
Comfort  thyself:   what  comfort  is  in  me? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 
May  He  within  himself  make  pure !  but  thou, 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray  for  my  soul.    More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.    Wherefore,  let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them  friend?' 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 


76  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

"But  now  farewell.    I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest — if  indeed  I  go — 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
To  the  island  valley  of  Avilion ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly ;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  orchard-lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  summer  sea, 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound." 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted  swan 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.    Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

These  Idyls  "  are  full  of  beauties  in  their  own  peculiar  manner  of 
workmanship ;  fine  ideas  abound  throughout  them ;  the  music  of 
words  is  heard  through  their  varying  pages  in  many  a  perfect  lyric; 
and  they  possess  numerous  passages  which,  for  weight  of  thought 
weightily  set  forth,  have  long  ago  passed  into  the  permanent  sta- 
tion of  household  words.  In  fine,  the  stock  of  the  English  tongue 
and  the  tone  of  the  English  mind  cannot  fail  to  benefit  from  them. 
But  the  men  and  women — do  they  individually  and  collectively 
stand  carved  in  the  heart  as  well  as  shaped  in  the  mind?  To  us 
they  have  always  presented  a  certain  remoteness,  totally  uncon- 
nected with  the  remoteness  of  the  times ;  and  we  have  never  been 
able  to  divest  ourselves  of  the  idea  that  they  were  being  moved 
by  an  external  hand,  holding  with  a  somewhat  painful  anxiety  all 
their  threads,  rather  than  by  inner,  deep-down  impulses,  such  as 
would  lead  us  to  lay  heart  to  heart  with  them  and  share  in  the 
burden  of  their  woe,  or  joy  in  the  brightness  of  their  joy. 

"  It  is  not  that  the  poems  are  wanting  in  pathos;  for  much  that 
we  read  in  connection  with  the  long-suffering  Enid,  the  love-strick- 
en Elaine,  the  vanity-befooled  Merlin,  the  conscience-crushed 
Guinevere,  is  moving  and  eloquent,  as  well  as  beautiful ;  but  if  we 
analyze  carefully  the  nature  of  the  feeling  called  up  by  this  mo- 
tive eloquence,  we  find  it  to  be  rather  a  sense  that  such  things  that 
the  poet  tells  are  possible  as  occurrences  to  ourselves,  or  to  those 
personally  dear  to  us,  than  a  vivid  carefulness  as  to  what  is  hap- 
pening to  the  persons  concerned  in  the  poetic  fiction, —  in  a  word, 
a  lyric  rather  than  a  dramatic  pathos." * 

*  London  Quarterly  Review,  April,  1870. 


TENNYSON.  77 


In  1864  Enoch  Arden  and  Other  Poems  was  given  to  the  public. 
"  Enoch  Arden  is  a  true  idyl.  It  is  a  simple  story  of  a  seafaring 
man's  sorrows ;  not  aspiring  to  the  dimensions  or  pompous  march 
of  the  strain  which  sings  heroes  and  their  exploits ;  but  charming 
the  heart  by  its  true  pathos,  and  the  ear  by  a  sweet  music  of  its 
own.  .  .  The  poet  indulges  in  no  digressions,  in  no  descriptions 
which  are  not  required  for  its  full  comprehension ;  he  rehearses 
no  long  conversations,  and  makes  no  unnecessary  remarks  of  his 
own.  On  the  one  hand,  there  is  no  sentimental  dawdling  over  the 
sad  situations  which  occur  in  the  narrative ;  on  the  other,  there  is 
no  hurry  in  the  march,  and  no  excessive  compression  of  any  of 
its  portions.  .  .  Amongst  other  things  we  have  been  struck  by  the 
delicate  management  of  that  slight  infusion  of  the  supernatural 
which  adds  dignity  to  its  humble  hero's  fate.  .  .  But  if  the  Lau- 
reate thus  knows  how  to  deal  with  the  unwarranted  beliefs  of  the 
simple,  and  how  to  extract  from  them  poetic  embellishment,  he 
also  knows  how  to  make  a  noble  use  of  their  religious  faith.  And 
it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  some  of  the  most  beautiful  passages 
in  Enoch  Arden  are  those  in  which  Holy  Scripture  is  reverently 
quoted. 

"Another  secret  of  the  Laureate's  strength  is  the  way  in  which 
he  suits  his  background  of  landscape  to  the  -figures  in  his  fore- 
ground, and  so  pictures  the  aspects  of  nature  as  seen  by  a  human 
eye  and  felt  by  a  human  heart;  whose  joys  they  reflect  by  their 
brightness,  or  trouble  with  apprehension  by  their  gloom ;  whose 
sorrow  they  soften  by  their  mute  sympathy,' or  increase  by  the 
seeming  mockery  of  sharp  and  violent  contrast."* 

The  year  1875  witnessed  Tennyson's  appearance  in  a  new  poetic 
guise — that  of  dramatist,  Queen  Mary  being  the  theme.  The  fol- 
lowing passage  is  from 

ACT  V. 
SCENE  I. — London.    Hall  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  PHILIP. 
Philip.  Sir  Nicholas  tells  you  true, 

And  you  must  look  to  Calais  when  I  go. 

Mary.     Go !    must  you  go,  indeed — again — so  soon  ? 

Why,  nature's  licensed  vagabond,  the  swallow, 
That  might  live  always  in  the  sun's  warm  heart, 
Stays  longer  here  in  our  poor  north  than  you : — 
Knows  where  he  nested— ever  comes  again. 

Philip.    And,  Madam,  so  shall  I. 

* Blackwood's  Magazine,  Nov..  1864. 

7* 


78  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Mary.  O,  will  you  ?  will  you  ? 

I  am  faint  with  fear  that  you  will  come  no  more. 

Philip.    Ay,  ay ;  but  many  voices  call  me  hence. 

Mary.     Voices — I  hear  unhappy  rumors — nay, 

I  say  not,  I  believe.    What  voices  call  you 
Dearer  than  mine  that  should  be  dearest  to  you? 
Alas,  my  Lord !   what  voices  and  how  many  ? 

Philip.    The  voices  of  Castile  and  Aragon, 

Granada,  Naples,  Sicily,  and  Milan, — 

The  voices  of  Franche-Comte'  and  the  Netherlands, 

The  voices  of  Peru  and  Mexico, 

Tunis,  and  Oran,  and  the  Philippines, 

And  all  the  fair  spice-islands  of  the  East. 

Mary  (admiringly). 

You  are  the  mightiest  monarch  upon  earth, 

I  but  a  little  Queen;  and  so,  indeed, 

Need  you  the  more;  and  wherefore  could  you  not 

Helm  the  huge  vessel  of  your  state,  my  liege, 

Here,  by  the  side  of  her  who  loves  you  most? 

Philip.    No,  Madam,  no!  a  candle  in  the  sun 

Is  all  but  smoke — a  star  beside  the  moon 

Is  all  but  lost ;  your  people  will  not  crown  me — 

Your  people  are  as  cheerless  as  your  clime ; 

Hate  me  and  mine:   witness  the  brawls,  the  gibbets. 

Here  swings  a  Spaniard — there  an  Englishman; 

The  peoples  are  unlike  as  their  complexion; 

Yet  will  I  be  your  swallow  and  return — 

But  now  I  cannot  bide. 

Mary.  Not  to  help  me? 

They  hate  me  also  for  my  love  to  you, 
My  Philip ;  and  these  judgments  on  the  land — • 
Harvestless  autumns,  horrible  agues,  plague — 

Philip.    The  blood  and  sweat  of  heretics  at  the  stake 
Is  God's  best  dew  upon  the  barren  field. 
Burn  more! 

Mary.  I  will,  I  will;  and  you  will  stay. 

Philip.    Have  I  not  said?    Madam,  I  came  to  sue 
Your  Council  and  yourself  to  declare  war. 

Mary.      Sir,  there  are  many  English  in  your  ranks 
To  help  you  battle. 

Philip.  So  far,  good.    I  say 

I  came  to  see  your  Council  and  yourself 
To  declare  war  against  the  King  of  France. 


TENNYSON.  79 


Mary.     Not  to  see  me? 

Philip.  Ay,  Madam,  to  see  you. 

Unalterably  and  pesteringly  fond!  [Aside. 

But,  soon  or  late,  you  must  have  war  with  France ; 

King  Henry  warms  your  traitors  at  his  hearth. 

Carew  is  there,  and  Thomas  Stafford  there. 

Courtenay,  belike — 
Mary.  A  fool  and  featherhead ! 

Philip.    Ay,  but  they  use  his -name.    In  brief,  this  Henry 
Stirs  up  your  land  against  you  to  the  intent 
That  you  may  lose  your  English  heritage. 
And  then,  your  Scottish  namesake  marrying 
The  Dauphin,  he  would  weld  France,  England,  Scotland, 
Into  one  sword  to  hack  at  Spain  and  me. 

Mary.     And  yet  the  Pope  is  now  colleagued  with  France; 
You  make  your  wars  upon  him  down  in  Italy : — 
Philip,  can  that  be  well? 

Philip.  Content  you,  Madam; 

You  must  abide  my  judgment,  and  my  father's, 
Who  deem  it  a  most  just  and  holy  war. 
The  Pope  would  cast  the  Spaniard  out  of  Naples : 
He  calls  us  worse  than  Jews,  Moors,  Saracens. 
The  Pope  has  push'd  his  horns  beyond  his  mitre — 
Beyond  his  province.    Now, 
Duke  Alva  will  but  touch  him  on  the  horns, 
And  he  withdraws ;  and  of  his  holy  head — 
For  Alva  is  true  son  of  the  true  church — 
No  hair  is  harmed.    Will  you  not  help  me  here? 

Mary.     Alas!  the  Council  will  not  hear  of  war. 

They  say  your  wars  are  not  the  wars  of  England. 

They  will  not  lay  more  taxes  on  a  land 

So  hunger-nipt  and  wretched;  and  you  know 

The  crown  is  poor.    We  have  given  the  church-lands  back. 

The  nobles  would  not;  nay,  they  clapt  their  hands 

Upon  their  swords  when  ask'd;  and  therefore  God 

Is  hard  upon  the  people.    What's  to  be  done? 

Sir,  I  will  move  them  in  your  cause  again, 

And  me  will  raise  us  loans  and  subsidies 

Among  the  merchants ;  and  Sir  Thomas  Gresham 

Will  aid  us.    There  is  Antwerp  and  the  Jews. 

Philip.    Madam,  my  thanks. 

Mary.  And  you  will  stay  your  going? 

Philip.    And  further  to  discourage  and  lay  lame 

The  plots  of  France,  altho'  you  love  her  not, 


80  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

You  must  proclaim  Elizabeth  your  heir. 

She  stands  between  you  and  the  Queen  of  Scots. 

Mary.     The  Queen  of  Scots  at  least  is  Catholic. 

Philip.    Ay,  Madam,  Catholic;  but  I  will  not  have 

The  King  of  France  the  King  of  England  too. 

Mary.     But  she's  a  heretic,  and  when  I  am  gone, 
Brings  the  new  learning  back. 

Philip.  It  must  be  done. 

You  must  proclaim  Elizabeth  your  heir. 

Mary.     Then  it  is  done;  but  you  will  stay  your  going 
Somewhat  beyond  your  settled  purpose? 

Philip.  No ! 

Mary.     What,  not  one  day? 

Philip.  You  beat  upon  the  rock. 

Mary.     And  I  am  broken  there. 

Philip.  Is  this  a  place 

To  wail  in,  Madam?  what!  a  public  hall. 

Go  in,  I  pray  you. 
Mary.  Do  not  seem  so  changed. 

Say  go ;  but  only  say  it  lovingly. 

Philip.    You  do  mistake.    I  am  not  one  to  change. 

I  never  loved  you  more. 
Mary.  Sire,  I  obey  you. 

Come,  quickly. 

Philip.    Ay.  [Exit  MARY. 

"To  sum  np  our  opinion  of  Queen  Mary,  we  are  inclined  to  think 
it  the  best  specimen  of  the  literary  drama  which  has  been  written 
in  our  time.  It  is,  at  least,  admirable  in  form.  .  .  Of  the  dra- 
matic spirit,  in  the  Shakespearian  sense,  the  play  has  nothing.  It 
lacks  the  personal  interest  which  might  recall  the  genius  of  national 
action,  and  excite  the  ardor  of  patriotism  by  the  representation  011 
the  stage  of  great  historic  examples.  It  is  guilty,  too,  of  the  blun- 
der, at  once  historic  and  dramatic,  of  making  a  heroine  out  of 
Bloody  Mary.  .  .  But  as  an  intellectual  exercise,  as  a  scientific 
study  of  abstract  motives,  as  a  stimulant  of  those  subtle  ideas 
which  the  luxurious  modem  imagination  delights  to  substitute  for 
action,  as  a  monument  of  ingenious  and  refined  expression,  in  all 
these  points  Mr.  Tennyson's  drama  may  long  continue  to  afford 
pleasure  to  the  reader."  * 

In  1876  the  Laureate  favored  his  numerous  admirers  with  a 

*  British  Quarterly  Review,  1875. 


TENNYSON.  81 


second  dramatic  poem,  entitled  Harold.  It  comprehends  the  pe- 
riod of  English  history  between  the  death  of  Edward  the  Confessor 
and  the  battle  of  Hastings,  and  is  interwoven  with  a  touching  love 
story.  Since  the  above  date,  Lover's  Tale,  The  Revenge — a  ballad, 
and  several  minor  poems  have  appeared. 

"When  Tennyson  published  his  first  poems,  the  critics  found  fault 
with  them.  He  held  his  peace.  For  ten  (nine)  years  no  one  saw 
his  name  in  a  review,  nor  even  in  a  publisher's  catalogue.  But 
when  he  appeared  again  before  the  public,  his  books  had  made 
their  way  alone  and  under  the  surface,  and  he  passed  at  once  for 
the  greatest  poet  of  his  country  and  his  time. 

"Men  were  surprised,  and  with  a  pleasing  surprise.  The  potent 
generation  of  poets  who  had  just  died  out,  had  passed  like  a  whirl- 
wind. Like  their  forerunners  of  the  sixteenth  century,  they  had 
carried  away  and  hurried  everything  to  its  extremes.  .  .  Men 
wanted  to  rest  after  so  many  efforts  and  so  much  excess.  Quitting 
the  imaginative,  sentimental,  and  satanic  school,  Tennyson  appeared 
exquisite.  All  the  forms  and  ideas  which  had  pleased  them  were 
found  in  him,  but  purified,  modulated,  set  in  a  splendid  style.  He 
completed  an  age;  he  enjoyed  that  which  had  agitated  others;  his 
poetry  was  like  the  lovely  evenings  in  summer :  the  outlines  of  the 
landscape  are  then  the  same  as  in  the  day-time ;  but  the  splendor 
of  the  dazzling  dome  is  dulled ;  the  reinvigorated  flowers  lift  them- 
selves up,  and  the  cairn  sun,  on  the  horizon,  harmoniously  blends 
in  a  network  of  crimson  rays  the  woods  and  meadows  which  it 
just  before  burned  by  its  brightness. 

"  What  first  attracted  people  were  Tennyson's  portraits  of  women. 
Adeline,  Eleanore,  Lilian,  the  May  Queen,  were  keepsake  charac- 
ters from  the  hand  of  a  lover  and  an  artist.  .  .  I  have  translated 
many  ideas  and  many  styles,  but  I  shall  not  attempt  to  translate 
one  of  these  portraits.  Each  word  of  them  is  like  a  tint,  curiously 
deepened  or  shaded  by  the  neighboring  tint,  with  all  the  boldness 
and  success  of  happiest  refinement.  The  least  alteration  would 
obscure  all.  And  there  could  not  be  too  much  of  an  art  so  just, 
so  consummate,  in  painting  the  charming  prettinesses,  the  sudden 
hauteurs,  the  half-blushes,  the  imperceptible  and  fleeting  caprices 
of  feminine  beauty.  He  opposes,  harmonizes  them,  makes  them, 
as  it  were,  into  a  gallery.  .  . 

"He  caressed  them  (all  things  refined  and  exquisite)  so  carefully, 
that  his  verses  appeared  at  times  far-fetched,  affected,  almost  eu- 
phuistic.  He  gave  them  too  much  adornment  and  polishing;  he 
seemed  like  an  epicurean  in  style  as  well  as  in  beauty.  He  looked 
for  pretty  rustic  scenes,  touching  remembrances,  curious  or  pure 

F 


82  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


sentiments.  He  made  them  into  elegies,  pastorals,  and  idyls.  He 
wrote  in  every  accent,  and  delighted  in  entering  into  the  feelings 
of  all  ages.  He  wrote  of  St.  Agnes,  St.  Simeon  Stylites,  Ulysses, 
(Enone,  Sir  Galahad,  Lady  Clare,  Fatima,  the  Sleeping  Beauty. 
He  imitated  alternately  Homer  and  Chaucer,  Theocritus  and 
Spenser,  the  old  English  poets  and  the  old  Arabian  poets.  He 
gave  life  successively  to  the  little  real  events  of  English  life,  and 
the  great  fantastic  adventurer  of  extinguished  chivalry.  He  was 
like  those  musicians  who  use  their  bow  in  the  service  of  all  mas- 
ters. He  strayed  through  nature  and  history,  with  no  pre-occupa- 
tion,  without  fierce  passion,  bent  on  feeling,  relishing,  culling 
from  all  parts,  in  the  flower-stand  of  the  drawing-room,  and  in  the 
rustic  hedge-rows,  the  rare  or  wild  flowers  or  scent  or  beauty  could 
charm  or  amuse  him.  Men  entered  into  his  pleasure;  smelt  the 
graceful  bouquets  which  he  knew  so  well  how  to  put  together; 
preferred  those  which  he  took  from  the  country;  found  that  his 
talent  was  nowhere  more  easy.  They  admire'd  the  minute  obser- 
vation and  refined  sentiment  which  knew  how  to  grasp  and 
interpret  the  fleeting  aspects."  * 

"A  poet,  like  other  men,  is  beset  by  the  difficulty  of  doing  justice 
in  his  representations  to  forms  of  thought  opposite  to  his  own,  and 
to  manifold  phases  of  feeling  which  his  judgment  and  education 
teach  him  to  regard  with  suspicion  or  even  condemnation.  Yet 
this  the  poet  must  do,  or  he  ceases  any  longer  to  hold  the  key  to 
men's  inner  hearts  and  deepest  emotions.  .  .  We  do  not  say  that 
Tennyson  is  without  any  portion  of  this  last  loftiest  characteristic; 
but  we  submit  that  his  didactic  and  moralizing  vein  is  occasionally 
suicidal  to- the  accomplishment  of  his  poetic  purposes;  and  there 
is  in  many  of  his  poems  an  absence  of  that  comprehensive  spirit 
of  self-identification  with  every  conceivable  form  of  thought  and 
feeling  and  all  possible  conditions  of  humanity,  which  is  the  very 
life-blood  of  a  poet  given  for  all  time."f 

"Whatever  be  the  nature  of  the  Laureate's  poems  from  time  to 
time  issued,  there  is  one  thing  which  we  seem,  so  far,  to  be  always, 
with  trifling  exceptions,  safe  in  expecting;  namely,  samples  of 
the  English  tongue  which,  regarded  merely  as  terse,  crisp,  and 
absolutely  compact  specimens  of  expression,  almost  no  one  can 
rival.  Tennyson  has  reduced  the  combined  clarity,  brevity,  and 
pithiness  of  our  language  to  the  lowest  term  yet  attained;  and 
probably  there  is  hardly  a  keenly-observant  writer  of  the  day, 
whether  he  write  in  prose  or  in  verse,  but  has  largely  benefited  by 
the  simple  linguistic  refinements  of  the  Laureate. "  J 

*  Taine's  EnglMi  Literature,  Vol.  II.  f  Westminster  Review,  Oct.,  1864. 

J  London  Quarterly  Review,  April,  1870. 


ROBERT    BROWNING. 


ROBERT  BROWNING  was  born  in  1812,  at  Camberwell,  a  suburb 
of  London,  and  was  educated  at  London  University.  Several 
of  the  earliest  years  of  his  manhood  were  spent  in  Italy, — 
a  country  whose  art,  whose  social,  monastic,  mediaeval,  and 
physical  life,  and  whose  history  imparted,  in  after  years,  a  pre- 
dominating color  to  his  poetical  creations. 

At  twenty-three,  Browning  entered  the  lists  where  poet- 
knights  contest  their  claims,  as  author  of  Paracelsus.  It  is  a 
dramatic  poem,  re-enacting  the  psychological  life  of  that  am- 
bitious alchemist,  magician,  and  physician  who  aspired  to  know 
the  essence  of  nature's  mysteries.  This  poem  was  followed,  in 
1837,  by  his  tragedy  of  Strafford,  a  not-very-happy  attempt  at 
portraying  the  English  life  of  the  times  of  Charles  I.  The  dra- 
matic poem  of  Sordello,  founded  upon  incidents  in  the  history 
of  the  Mantuan  poet  of  that  name  whom  Dante  imagines  him- 
self to  have  met  in  purgatory,  appeared  in  1840.  Next  came, 
in  1843,  A  Blot  on  the  'Scutcheon,  a  tragedy  of  singular  in- 
tensity. 

The  interval  between  1842  and  1846  was  fertile  in  a  number 
of  poems,  of  which  we  may  name  King  Victor  and  King  Charles 
— a  tragedy  ;  Columbe's  Birthday — a  play  ;  The  Return  of  the 
Druses  and  Luria — tragedies ;  A  Souls  Tragedy,  and  Dra- 
matic Romances  and  Lyrics.  From  the  last  we  select 

AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP. 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Eatisbon: 

A  mile  or  so  away 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 
Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "My  plans 
That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 

83 


84  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall," — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping ;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy : 

You  hardly  could  suspect — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  thro'.) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

"Well,"  cried  he,  "Emperor,  by  God's  grace, 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon! 
The  Marshal's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him ! "  The  Chiefs  eye  flashed ;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  Chief's  eye  flashed;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother  eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes: 
"  You  're  wounded ! "    "  Nay,"  his  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said: 
"I'm  killed,  Sire!"    And,  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead. 

Browning  married,  in  1846,  the  distinguished  poetess,  Elizabeth 
Barrett,  since  when,  until  recently,  he  has  resided  in  Italy,  for  the 
most  part  at  Florence.  From  this  home  of  art  was  issued,  in  1850, 
Christmas-Eve  and  Easter-Day,  and  Pippa  Passes.  "  For  any  one  who 
desires  with  small  study  to  know  this  poet,  Pippa  Passes  is  the  work 
to  be  read.  It  runs  through  all  his  octaves  of  pathos  and  humor, 
passion,  character.  Hence  it  is  as  full  of  fantastic  life  as  a  masquer- 
ade. In  most  of  the  other  dramas  Italian  subtlety,  ecclesiastical 
or  otherwise,  is  the  leading  idea.  It  struggles  through  King  Victor 
and  King  Charles,  fails  in  the  Return  of  the  Druses,  breaks  a  Titanic 
barbarian  heart  in  Luria,  laughs  to  scorn  all  patriotism,  all  sin- 
cerity, in  A  Sours  Tragedy.  Its  germ  is  the  character  of  Monsignor, 
in  Pippa  Passes."*  Let  us  hear  Pippa's  musings  on  a  New-year's 
Day  in  her  mean  chamber  at  Asolo. 

*  British  Quarterly  Rcriri*.  March,  1869. 


ROBERT   BROWNING.  85 

Worship  whom  else  ?    For  am  I  not,  this  day, 
Whate'er  I  please?    What  shall  I  please  to-day? 
My  morning,  noon,  eve,  night — how  spend  my  day  ? 
To-morrow  I  must  be  Pippa  who  winds  silk, 
The  whole  year  round,  to  earn  just  bread  and  milk : 
But,  this  one  day,  I  have  leave  to  go 
And  play  out  my  fancy's  fullest  games: 
I  may  fancy  all  day — and  it  shall  be  so — 
That  I  taste  of  the  pleasures,  am  called  by  the  names 
Of  the  Happiest  Four  in  our  Asolo! 

See !  up  the  hill-side  yonder,  through  the  morning, 

Some  one  shall  love  me,  as  the  world  calls  love : 

I  am  no  less  than  Ottima,  take  warning ! 

The  gardens,  and  the  great  stone  house  above, 

And  other  house  for  shrubs,  all  glass  in  front, 

Are  mine ;  where  Sebald  steals,  as  he  is  wont, 

To  court  me,  while  old  Luca  yet  reposes  ; 

And  therefore,  till  the  shrub-house  door  uncloses, 

I  ...  what,  now? — give  abundant  cause  for  prate 

About  me — Ottima,  I  mean — of  late, 

Too  bold,  too  confident  she  '11  still  face  down 

The  spitemllest  of  talkers  in  our  town — 

How  we  talk  in  the  little  town  below! 

But  love,  love,  love — there's  better  love,  I  know! 

This  foolish  love  was  only  day's  first  offer; 

I  choose  my  next  love  to  defy  the  scoffer: 

For  do  not  our  Bride  and  Bridegroom  sally 

Out  of  Possango  church  at  noon? 

Their  house  looks  over  Orcana  valley  — 

Why  should  I  not  be  the  bride  as  soon 

As  Ottima?    For  I  saw,  beside, 

Arrive  last  night  that  little  bride  -=- 

Saw,  if  you  call  it  seeing  her,  one  flash 

Of  the  pale,  snow-pure  cheek  and  black  bright  tresses, 

Blacker  than  all  except  the  black  eyelash; 

I  wonder  she  contrives  those  lids  no  dresses! 

—So  strict  was  she,  the  veil 
.Should  cover  close  her  pale 

Pure  cheeks — a  bride  to  look  at  and  scarce  touch, 
Scarce  touch,  remember,  Jules !  —  for  are  not  such 
Used  to  be  tended,  flower-like,  every  feature, 
As  if  one's  breath  would  fray  the  lily  of  a  creature? 
A  soft  and  easy  life  these  ladies  lead! 
Whiteness  in  us  were  wonderful  indeed — 
8 


86  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Oh,  save  that  brow  its  virgin  dimness, 

Keep  that  foot  its  lady  primness, 

Let  those  ankles  never  swerve 

From  their  exquisite  reserve, 

Yet  have  to  trip  along  the  streets  like  me, 

All  but  naked  to  the  knee! 

How  will  she  ever  grant  her  Jules  a  bliss 

So  startling  as  her  real  first  infant  kiss? 

Oh,  no — not  envy,  this ! 

— Not  envy,  sure ! — for  if  you  gave  me 
Leave  to  take  or  to  refuse, 
In  earnest,  do  you  think  I'd  choose 
That  sort  of  new  love  to  enslave  me? 
Mine  should  have  lapped  me  round  from  the  beginning; 
As  little  fear  of  losing  it  as  winning! 
Lovers  grow  cold,  men  learn  to  hate  their  wives, 
And  only  parents'  love  can  last  our  lives: 
At  eve  the  son  and  mother,  gentle  pair, 
Commune  inside  our  turret;  what  prevents 
My  being  Luigi?  while  that  mossy  lair 
Of  lizards  through  the  winter-time,  is  stirred 
With  each  to  each  imparting  sweet  intents 
For  this  new-year,  as  brooding  bird  to  bird — 
(For  I  observe  of  late,  the  evening  walk 
Of  Luigi  and  his  mother,  always  ends 
Inside  our  ruined  turret,  where  they  talk, 
Calmer  than  lovers,  yet  more  kind  than  friends) 
Let  me  be  cared  about,  kept  out  of  harm, 
And  schemed  for,  safe  in  love  as  with  a  charm ; 
Let  me  be  Luigi!  ...  If  I  only  knew 
What  was  my  mother's  face — my  father,  too ! 

Nay,  if  you  come  to  that,  best  love  of  all 

Is  God's;  then  why  not  have  God's  love  befall 

Myself  as,  in  the  Palace  by  the  Dome, 

Monsignor? — who  to-night  will  bless  the  home 

Of  his  dead  brother;  and  God  will  bless  in  turn 

That  heart  which  beats,  those  eyes  which  mildly  burn 

With  love  for  all  men:  I,  to-night  at  least, 

Would  be  that  holy  and  beloved  priest! 

Now  wait! — even  I  already  seem  to  shr.re 

In  God's  love:  what  does  New-year's  hymn  declare? 

What  other  meaning  do  these  verses  bear? 

All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God: 
If  now,  as  formerly  He  trod 


ROBERT  BROWNING.  87 

Paradise,  His  presence  fills 

Our  earth,  each  only  as  God  wills 

Can  work — God's  puppets,  best  and  worst, 

Are  we ;  there  is  no  last  nor  first. 

Say  not  "a  small  event!"     Why  "small"? 
Costs  it  more  pain  than  this,  ye  call 
A  "great  event"  should  come  to  pass, 
Than  that  f    Untwine  me  from  the  mass 
Of  deeds  which  make  up  life,  one  deed 
Power  shall  fall  short  in,  or  exceed ! 

And  more  of  it  and  more  of  it ! — oh,  yes — 
I  will  pass  by,  and  see  their  happiness, 
And  envy  none — being  just  as  great,  no  doubt, 
Useful  to  men,  and  dear  to  God,  as  they! 
A  pretty  thing  to  care  about 
So  mightily,  this  single  holiday! 

But  let  the  sun  shine!  Wherefore  repine? 

With  thee  to  lead  me,  O  Day  of  mine, 
Down  the  grass-path  grey  with  dew, 

Under  the  pine-wood,  blind  with  boughs, 
Where  the  swallow  never  flew 

As  yet,  nor  cicale  dared  carouse — 

Dared  carouse! 

Men  and  Women  followed  in  1855 ;  Dramatis  Personce,  in 
1864 ;  and  The  Eing  and  the  Boole,  in  1869.  The  gist  of  the 
last  poem  we  will  let  the  poet  himself  disclose. 

Count  Guido  Franceschini  the  Aretine, 

Descended  of  an  ancient  house,  though  poor, 

A  beak-nosed,  bushy-bearded,  black-haired  lord, 

Lean,  pallid,  low  of  stature  yet  robust, 

Fifty  years  old, — having  four  years  ago 

Married  Pompilia  Comparini,  young,   . 

Good,  beautiful,  at  Rome,  where  she  was  born, 

And  brought  her  to  Arezzo,  where  they  lived 

Unhappy  lives,  whatever  curse  the  cause, — 

This  husband,  taking  four  accomplices, 

Followed  this  wife  to  Rome,  where  she  was  fled 

From  their  Arezzo  to  find  peace  again, 

In  convoy,  eight  months  earlier,  of  a  priest, 

Aretine  also,  of  still  nobler  birth, 

Guiseppe  Caponsacchi, — and  caught  her  there 

Quiet  in  a  villa  on  a  Christinas  night, 


88  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

With  only  Pietro  and  Violante  by, 

Both  her  putative  parents ;  killed  the  three, 

Aged,  they,  seventy  each,  and  she  seventeen, 

And,  two  weeks  since,  the  mother  of  his  babe 

First-born  and  heir  to  what  the  style  was  worth 

O'  the  Guido  who  determined,  dared  and  did 

This  deed  just  as  he  purposed  point  by  point. 

Then,  bent  upon  escape,  but  hotly  pressed, 

And  captured  with  his  co-mates  that  same  night, 

He,  brought  to  trial,  stood  on  this  defence — 

Injury  to  his  honor  caused  the  act; 

That  since  his  wife  was  false  (as  manifest 

By  flight  from  home  in  such  companionship), 

Death,  punishment  deserved  of  the  false  wife 

And  faithless  parents  who  abetted  her 

I'  the  flight  aforesaid,  wronged  nor  God  nor  man. 

"  Not  false  she,  nor  yet  faithless  they,"  replied 

The  accuser ;  "  cloaked  and  masked  this  murder  glooms ; 

True  was  Pompilia,  loyal,  too,  the  pair ; 

Out  of  the  man's  own  heart  this  monster  curled, 

This  crime  coiled  with  connivancy  at  crime, 

His  victim's  breast,  he  tells  you,  hatched  and  reared ; 

Uncoil  we  and  stretch  stark  the  worm  of  hell ! " 

A  month  the  trial  swayed  this  way  and  that 

Ere  judgment  settled  down  on  Guide's  guilt ; 

Then  was  the  Pope,  that  good  Twelfth  Innocent, 

Appealed  to:  who  well  weighed  what  went  before, 

Affirmed  the  guilt  and  gave  the  guilty  doom. 

Of  the  eight  repetitions  of  this  story,  we  select  from  Pom- 
pilia's  her  dying  words. 

For  that  most  woeful  man  my  husband  once, 
Who,  needing  respite,  still  draws  vital  breath, 
I — pardon  him?    So  far  as  lies  in  me, 
I  give  him  for  his  good  the  life  he  takes, 
Praying  the  world  will  therefore  acquiesce. 
Let  him  make  God  amends, — none,  none  to  me 
Who  thank  him  rather  that,  whereas  strange  fate 
Mockingly  styled  him  husband  and  me  wife, 
Himself  this  way  at  least  pronounced  divorce, 
Blotted  the  marriage-bond :  this  blood  of  mine 
Flies  forth  exultingly  at  any  door, 
Washes  the  parchment  white,  and  thanks  the  blow. 
We  shall  not  meet  in  this  world  nor  the  next, 
But  where  will  God  be  absent?    In  His  face 
Is  light,  but  in  His  shadow  healing  too : 


ROBERT  BROWNING.  80 

Let  Guido  touch  the  shadow  and  be  healed! 

And  as  my  presence  was  importunate, — 

My  earthly  good,  temptation  and  a  snare, — 

Nothing  about  me  but  drew  somehow  down 

His  hate  upon  me, — somewhat  so  excused 

Therefore,  since  hate  was  thus  the  truth  of  him, — 

May  my  evanishment  forevermore 

Help  further  to  relieve  the  heart  that  cast 

Such  object  of  its  natural  loathing  forth ! 

So  he  was  made;  he  nowise  made  himself: 

I  could  not  love  him,  but  his  mother  did. 

His  soul  has  never  lain  beside  my  soul ; 

But  for  the  unresisting  body, —  thanks! 

He  burned  that  garment  spotted  by  the  flesh ! 

Whatever  he  touched  is  rightly  ruined:  plague 

It  caught,  and  disinfection  it  had  craved 

Still  but  for  Guido ;  I  am  saved  through  him 

So  as  by  fire;  to  him — thanks  and  farewell! 

Even  for  my  babe,  my  boy,  there's  safety  thence — 
From  the  sudden  death  of  me,  I  mean :  we  poor 
Weak  souls,  how  we  endeavor  to  be  strong! 
I  was  already  using  up  my  life, — 
This  portion,  now,  should  do  him  such  a  good, 
This  other  go  to  keep  off  such  an  ill! 
The  great  life;  see,  a  breath  and  it  is  gone! 
So  is  detached,  so  left  all  by  itself 
The  little  life,  the  fact  which  means  so  much. 
Shall  not  God  stoop  the  kindlier  to  His  work, 
His  marvel  of  creation,  foot  would  crush, 
Now  that  the  hand  He  trusted  to  receive 
And  hold  it,  lets  the  treasure  fall  perforce? 
The  better:  He  shall  have  in  orphanage 
His  own  way  all  the  clearlier:  if  my  babe 
Outlive  the  hour — and  he  has  lived  two  weeks — 
It  is  through  God  who  knows  I  am  not  by. 
Who  is  it  makes  the  soft  gold  hair  turn  black, 
And  sets  the  tongue,  might  lie  so  long  at  rest, 
Trying  to  talk?    Let  us  leave  God  alone! 
Why  should  I  doubt  He  will  explain  in  time 
What  I  feel  now,  but  fail  to  find  the  words? 
My  babe  nor  was,  nor  is,  nor  yet  shall  be 
Count  Guido  Franceschini's  child  at  all — 
Only  his  mother's,  born  of  love,  not  hate! 
So  shall  I  have  my  rights  in  after-time. 
It  seems  absurd,  impossible  to-day ; 
So  seems  so  much  else  not  explained  but  known. 
8* 


90  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

"  A  poem  of  twenty-one  thousand  lines  is  based  on  a  story  which 
would  suit  a  contemporary  sensation  novelist.  The  old  vein  of 
Italian  subtlety  runs  through  it.  The  construction  of  the  poem 
is  quite  original.  The  story  is  told  over  and  over  again  from  va- 
rious points  of  view.  The  effect  produced  upon  the  mind  resem- 
bles that  which  results  from  reading  through  a  long  trial  in  the 
newspapers — evidence  in  extenso,  speeches  of  all  the  counsel,  the 
judge's  summing  up,  and  the  subsequent  comments  of  a  dozen 
different  journals. 

"  There  are  two  important  objections  to  this  poem,  considered  as 
a  work  of  art.  It  is  a  primary  canon  of  criticism  that  a  great  poem 
can  be  based  only  on  a  great  human  action.  But  the  character 
and  conduct  of  Guido  Franceschini  are  mean  and  ignoble :  he  is 
a  creature  wholly  contemptible.  .  .  And  the  construction  of  the 
poem  is,  in  our  opinion,  as  faulty  as  its  action ;  to  give  eight  ver- 
sions of  the  same  story,  yet  nowhere  to  tell  the  story  in  its  true 
and  direct  form,  is  of  course  original,  but  is  certainly  inartistic. 
It  is  the  newspaper  in  blank  verse.  .  . 

"Browning's  method  is,  however,  saved  from  being  wearisome 
by  his  exercise  of  that  peculiar  faculty  which  he  alone  possesses. 
When,  for  example,  Guido  is  pleading  or  confessing,  it  is  not  the 
rascal  Count,  as  a  great  dramatist  would  make  it,  but  the  poet 
himself,  who  for  the  moment  is  acting  Guido.  He  thrusts  himself 
with  marvelous  skill  into  many  characters,  but  he  never  forgets 
himself.  You  hear  the  poet's  voice  behind  the  mask.  We  find  in 
this  poem  the  same  ruggedness  of  expression,  the  same  difficulty 
of  clothing  thought  in  fit  words,  which  pertained  to  all  its  pred- 
ecessors." * 

A  volume  of  Browning's  poems — published  in  1872 — included 
Fifine  at  the  Fair,  Prince  Hohenstiel-Schwangau,  and  Herve  Riel.  Of 
the  first  of  these,  "  The  scene  is  at  Browning's  favorite  Breton  site  of 
Pornic ;  the  husband  and  the  wife  go  to  look  at  a  traveling  show 
that  has  come  into  the  town  over  night,  and  they  discuss  the  prin- 
ciple which  gives  to  social  outcasts  and  pariahs  a  self-contentment 
of  their  own.  He,  the  husband,  gives  money  to,  and  makes  too 
much  of,  a  saucy  Gipsy  girl  of  the  troupe ;  has  to  explain  his  fancy 
and  defend  it;  take«  his  wife  a  walk,  and  tells  her,  with  all  sorts 
of  philosophical  amplifications  and  digressions,  the  meaning  and 
moral  of  such  fancies,  and  how  they  do  her  no  wrong;  profounds 
Platonic  ideas  of  the  relation  of  real  to  ideal  form ;  shows  how  to  the 
esoteric  mind  the  Fifines  and  their  tribe  have  their  perfection  and 
true  place  in  the  universe ;  gets  into  the  deepest  generalities  of  life 

*  British  Quarterly  Review,  March,  18G9. 


ROBERT  BROWNING.  91 

and  religion,  phenomenon  and  noumenon ;  explains  on  the  way 
how  there  is  one  way  of  winning  power  over  men,  and  another 
over  women ;  relates  dreams,  visions,  masques,  all  invented  to 
figure  forth  his  views  of  human  dealing  and  destiny.  .  .  Say  one 
must  its  form  is  wilfully  uncouth  and  entangled,  that  suggestions 
and  analogies,  clutched  at  as  many  of  these  are,  will  surely  not 
come  out  sound  thought  when  they  are  reduced  into  normal  form."* 

Here  is  the  show  and  its  heroine. 

Oh,  trip  and  skip,  Elvire !   Link  arm  in  arm  with  me : 

Like  husband  and  like  wife,  together  let  us  see 

The  tumbling-troop  arrayed,  the  strollers  on  their  stage 

Drawn  up  and  under  arms,  and  ready  to  engage. 

Now,  who  supposed  the  night  would  play  us  such  a  prank  ? — 

That  what  was  raw  and  brown,  rough  pole  and  shaven  plank, 

Mere  bit  of  hoarding,  half  by  trestle  propped,  half  tub, 

Would  flaunt  it  forth  as  brisk  as  butterfly  from  grub  ? 

This  comes  of  sun  and  air,  of  autumn  afternoon, 

And  Pornic  and  Saint  Gille,  whose  feast  affords  the  boon, — 

This  scaffold  turned  parterre,  this  flower-bed  in  full  blow, 

Bateleurs,  baladines !  We  shall  not  miss  the  show ! 

They  pace  and  promenade ;  they  presently  will  dance : 

What  good  were  else  i'  the  drum  and  fife  ?  O  pleasant  land  of  France ! 

Who  saw  them  make  their  entry  ?  At  wink  of  eve,  be  sure, 

They  love  to  steal  a  march,  nor  lightly  risk  the  lure. 

They  keep  their  treasure  hid,  nor  state  ( improvident ) 

Before  the  time  is  ripe,  each  wonder  of  their  tent, — 

Yon  six-legged  sheep,  to  wit,  and  he  who  beats  a  gong, 

Lifts  cap,  and  waves  salute,  exhilarates  the  throng, — 

Their  ape  of  many  years  and  much  adventure,  grim 

And  gray  with  pitying  fools  who  find  a  joke  in  him. 

Or,  best,  the  human  beauty,  Mimi,  Toinette,  Fifine, 

Tricot  fines  down  if  fat,  pudding  plumps  up  if  lean, 

Ere,  shedding  petticoat,  modesty  and  such  toys, 

They  bounce  forth,  squalid  girls  transformed  to  gamesome  boys. 

No,  no,  thrice,  Pornic,  no !    Perpend  the  authentic  tale ! 

'T  was  not  for  every  Gawain  to  gaze  upon  the  Grail ! 

But  whoso  went  his  rounds  when  flew  bat,  flitted  midge, 

Might  hear  across  the  dusk — where  both  roads  join  the  bridge, 

Hard  by  the  little  port — creak  a  slow  caravan, 

A  chimneyed  house  on  wheels ;  so  shyly-sheathed,  began 

*  The  Fortnightly  Review,  July,  1872. 


92  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

To  broaden  out  the  bud,  which,  bursting  unaware, 

Now  takes  away  our  breath,  queen-tulip  of  the  Fair ! 

Yet  morning  promised  much ;  for,  pitched  and  slung  and  reared 

On  terrace  'neath  the  tower,  'twixt  tree  and  tree  appeared 

An  airy  structure :  how  the  pennon  from  its  dome, 

Frenetic  to  be  free,  makes  one  red  stretch  for  home ! — 

The  home  far  and  away,  the  distance  where  lives  joy, 

The  cure,  at  once  and  ever,  of  world  and  world's  annoy ; 

Since  what  lolls  full  in  front,  a  furlong  from  the  booth, 

But  ocean-idleness,  sky-blue,  and  millpond-smooth  ? 


Go  boldly,  enter  booth,  disburse  the  coin  at  bar 

Of  doorway  where  presides  the  master  of  the  troop, 

And  forthwith  you  survey  his  Graces  in  a  group, — 

Live  picture,  picturesque  no  doubt,  and  close  to  life : 

His  sisters,  right  and  left ;  the  Grace  in  front,  his  wife. 

Next,  who  is  this  performs  the  feat  of  the  trapeze  ? 

Lo,  she  is  launched :  look,  fie,  the  fairy  !  —  how  she  flees 

O'er  all  those  heads  thrust  back ! — mouths,  eyes,  one  gape  and  stare. 

No  scrap  of  skirt  impedes  free  passage  through  the  air, 

Till,  plumb  on  the  other  side,  she  lights,  and  laughs  again, — 

That  fairy  form,  whereof  each  muscle,  nay,  each  vein, 

The  curious  may  inspect, — his  daughter  that  he  sells 

Each  rustic  for  five  sous.    Desiderate  aught  else 

O'  the  vender?    As  you  leave  his  show, —  why,  joke  the  man : — 

"  You  cheat :  your  six-legged  sheep,  I  recollect,  began 

Both  life  and  trade,  last  year,  trimmed  properly  and  dipt 

As  the  Twin-headed  Babe  and  Human  Nondescript." 

What  does  he  care  ?    You  paid  his  price,  may  pass  your  jest, 

So  values  he  repute,  good  fame,  and  all  the  rest. 


This  way,  this  way,  Fifine ! 

Here 's  she  shall  make  my  thoughts  be  surer  what  they  mean ! 
First  let  me  read  the  signs,  portray  your  past  mistake 
The  gipsy's  foreign  self,  no  swarth  our  sun  could  bake, 
Yet  where 's  a  woolly  trace,  degrades  the  wiry  hair  ? 
And  note  the  Greek-nymph  nose,  and — oh,  my  Hebrew  pair 
Of  eye  and  eye, — o'erarched  by  velvet  of  the  mule, — 
That  swim  as  in  a  sea,  that  dip  and  rise  and  roll, 
Spilling  the  light  around !  while  either  ear  is  cut 
Thin  as  a  dusk-leaved  rose  carved  from  a  cocoanut. 
And  then  her  neck ! — now,  grant  you  had  the  power  to  deck, 
Just  as  your  fancy  pleased,  the  bistre-length  of  neck ; 
Could  lay,  to  shine  against  it  shade,  a  moon-like  row 
Of  pearl,  each  round  and  white  as  bubble  Cupids  blow 


ROBERT  BROWNING.  93 


Big  out  of  mother's  milk :  what  pearl-moon  would  surpass 

That  string  of  mock-turquoise,  those  almandines  of  glass, 

Where  girlhood  terminates  ?  for  with  breasts'-birth  commence 

The  boy,  and  page-costume,  till  pink  and  impudence 

End  admirably  all :  complete,  the  creature  trips 

Our  way  now,  brings  sunshine  upon  her  spangled  hips, 

As  here  she  fronts  us  full,  with  pose  half  frank,  half  fierce ! 

"  To  read  Browning  one  must  exert  himself,  but  he  will  exert 
himself  to  some  purpose.  If  he  finds  the  meaning  difficult  of 
access,  it  is  always  worth  his  effort — if  he  has  to  dive  deep  he 
rises  with  his  pearl.  Indeed,  in  Browning's  best  poems  he  makes 
us  feel  that  what  we  took  for  obscurity  in  him  was  superficiality  in 
ourselves.  We  are  far  from  meaning  that  all  his  obscurity  is  like 
the  obscurity  of  the  stars,  dependent  simply  on  the  feebleness  of 
man's  vision.  On  the  contrary,  our  admiration  for  his  genius 
only  makes  us  feel  the  more  acutely  that  its  inspirations  are  too 
often  straightened  by  the  garb  of  whimsical  mannerisms  with 
which  he  clothes  them.  .  . 

"  There  is  nothing  sickly  or  dreamy  in  him  :  he  has  a  clear  eye, 
a  vigorous  grasp,  and  courage  to  utter  what  he  sees  and  handles. 
His  robust  energy  is  informed  by  a  subtle,  penetrating  spirit,  and 
this  blending  of  opposite  qualities  gives  bis  mind  a  rough  piquancy 
that  reminds  one  of  a  russet  apple.  His  keen  glance  pierces  into 
all  the  secrets  of  human  character,  but,  being  as  thoroughly  alive 
to  the  outward  as  to  the  inward,  he  reveals  those  secrets,  not  by  a 
process  of  dissection,  but  by  dramatic  painting. 

"Browning  has  no  soothing  strains,  no  chants,  no  lullabies;  he 
rarely  gives" voice  to  our  melancholy,  still  less  to  our  gaiety;  he 
sets  our  thoughts  at  work  rather  than  our  emotions.  But  though 
eminently  a  thinker,  he  is  as  far  as  possible  from  prosaic;  his  mode 
of  presentation  is  always  concrete,  artistic,  and,  when  it  is  most 
felicitous,  dramatic.  .  .  The  greatest  deficiency  we  feel  in  his 
poetry  is  its  want  of  music.  His  lyrics,  instead  of  tripping  along 
with  easy  grace,  or  rolling  with  a  torrent-like  grandeur,  seem  to  be 
struggling  painfully  under  a  burden  too  heavy  for  them  ;  and  many 
of  them  have  the  disagreeable,  puzzling  effect  of  a  charade,  rather 
than  the  touching  or  animating  influence  of  a  song. 

"  We  have  said  that  he  is  never  prosaic ;  and  it  is  remarkable 
that  in  his  blank  verse,  though  it  is  often  colloquial,  we  are 
never  shocked  by  the  sudden  lapse  into  prose.  Wordsworth  is,  on 
the  whole,  a  far  more  musical  poet  than  Browning,  yet  we  remem- 
ber no  line  in  Browning  so  prosaic  as  many  of  Wordsworth's.  But 


94  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


we  must  also  say  that  though  Browning  never  flounders  helplessly 
'on  the  plain,  he  rarely  soars  above  a  certain  table-land — a  footing 
between  the  level  of  prose  and  the  topmost  heights  of  poetry.  He 
does  not  take  possession  of  our  souls  and  set  them  aglow,  as  the 
greatest  poets — the  greatest  artists  do.  We  admire  his  power,  we 
are  not  subdued  to  it.  Language  with  him  does  not  seem  spon- 
taneously to  link  itself  into  song,  as  sounds  link  themselves  into 
melody  in  the  mind  of  the  creative  musician ;  he  rather  seems  by 
his  commanding  power  to  compel  language  into  verse.  He  has 
chosen  verse  as  his  medium ;  but  of  our  greatest  poets  we  feel  that 
they  had  no  choice:  verse  chose  them."* 

In  1873  was  published  Red  Cotton  Nightcap  Country,  which  was 
followed  in  1875  by  The  Inn  Album  and  Aristophanes'  Apology,  in 
1876  by  Pacchiarotto,  and  in  1878  by  La  Saisiaz:  The  Two  Poets  of 
Croisic. 

Summing  up  the  various  merits  and  demerits  of  this  last  poem, 
an  able  review  remarks :  " After  all,  who  of  our  poets  is  so  full- 
minded  as  he  [Browning],  pouring  without  stint  from  treasures 
which  run  over  with  richness  ?  The  alertness,  the  compression  of 
thought,  the  riotous  expansion  of  fancy,  the  plunge  into  torrents 
of  life,  the  sudden  calm  of  an  awed  mind,  all  these  are  here  in  this 
book  as  in  his  earlier  poems,  and  we  have  no  fears  that  Browning 
will  really  grow  old  any  faster  than  we  do."  f 


*  British  Quarterly  Review,  1864.  f  Atlantic  Monthly,  Dec.,  1876. 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BROWNING. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  was  born  in  London,  in  1809.  Sur- 
rounding affluence,  and  refinement,  and  a  precocious  literary 
bent  conspired  to  render  our  poetess  remarkable  from  her  very 
childhood.  When  only  ten  she  had  manifested  a  faculty  for 
composing  both  in  prose  and  poetry,  and  when  fifteen  her  prom- 
ising efforts  were  well  known  to  quite  a  circle  of  friends.  Her 
first  volume,  entitled  Essay  on  Mind  and  other  Poems,  was  pub- 
lished when  she  was  but  seventeen. 

The  work,  however,  which  first  really  brought  Miss  Barrett 
into  public  notice  was  her  translation  of  Prometheus  Bound, 
which  was  published  in  1833.  As  the  achievement  of  a  young 
lady,  this  work  was  regarded  with  much  indulgence,  but  as  a 
worthy  rendition  of  ^Eschylus  a  marked  failure.  The  poetess 
herself,  before  long,  came  to  realize  its  weakness,  for  she  made  a 
subsequent  and  much  more  successful  effort  at  a  new  rendering. 

About  1837,  the,  death  by  drowning  before  her  eyes  of  a 
much-loved  brother  so  completely  shocked  Miss  Barrett's  nat- 
urally delicate  constitution  as  to  render  necessary  almost  soli- 
tary confinement  in  a  dark  room  for  several  years.  It  was 
during  these  years  of  seclusion  chiefly,  and  when  her  mind, 
abstracted  from  the  sight  and  sympathy  of  the  sensible  world, 
directed  its  large  native  energies  to  the  contemplation  of  spir- 
itual and  divine  realities,  that  she  composed  such  poems  as 
The  Seraphim,  A  Drama  of  Exile,  Isabel's  Child,  The  Soul's 
Traveling,  and  several  of  her  most  touching  sonnets. 

Her  emergence  from  this  state  of  intense  subjectivity  and  re- 
ligious meditation  into  that  of  social  and  cheery  experience  is 
seen  in  the  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese  and  Lady  Geraldines 
Courtship.  From  the  Sonnets. we  select  the  following  three  : 

95 


96  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Yes,  call  me  by  my  pet  name !  let  me  hear 
The  name  I  used  to  run  at,  when  a  child, 
From  innocent  play,  and  leave  the  cowslips  piled, 
To  glance  up  in  some  face  that  proved  me  dear 
With  the  look  of  its  eyes.    I  miss  the  clear 
Fond  voices,  which,  being  drawn  and  reconciled 
Into  the  music  of  Heaven's  undefiled, 
Call  me  no  longer.    Silence  on  the  bier, 
While  /call  God  . . .  call  God!— So  let  thy  mouth 
Be  heir  to  those  who  are  now  examinate : 
Gather  the  north  flowers  to  complete  the  south, 
And  catch  the  early  love  up  in  the  late ! 
Yes,  call  me  by  that  name,— and  I,  in  truth, 
With  the  same  heart,  will  answer,  and  not  wrait. 

With  the  same  heart,  I  said,  I  '11  answer  thee 
As  those,  when  thou  shalt  call  me  by  my  name — 
Lo,  the  vain  promise !     Is  the  same,  the  same, 
Perplexed  and  ruffled  by  life's  strategy  ? 
When  called  before,  I  told  how  hastily 
I  dropped  my  flowers,  or  brake  off  from  a  game, 
To  run  and  answer  with  the  smile  that  came 
At  play  last  moment,  and  went  on  with  me 
Through  my  obedience.    When  I  answer  now, 
I  drop  a  grave  thought ; — break  from  solitude : — 
Yet  still  my  heart  goes  to  thee,  .  .  ponder  how. . . 
Not  as  to  a  single  good,  but  all  my  good ! 
Lay  thy  hand  on  it,  best  one,  and  allow 
That  no  child's  foot  could  run  fast  as  this  blood. 

If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  will  thou  exchange 

And  be  all  to  me  ?    Shall  I  never  miss 

Home-talk  and  blessing,  and  the  common  kiss 

That  comes  to  each  in  turn,  nor  count  it  strange, 

When  I  look  up,  to  drop  on  a  new  range 

Of  walls  and  floors  .  .  .  another  home  than  this  ? 

Nay,  wilt  thou  fill  that  place  by  me  which  is 

Filled  by  dead  eyes  too  tender  to  know  change  ? 

That 's  hardest !     If  to  conquer  love  has  tried, 

To  conquer  grief  tries  more  ...  as  all  things  prove : 

For  grief  indeed  is  love  and  grief  beside. 

Alas,  I  have  grieved  so  I  am  hard  to  love — 

Yet  love  me — wilt  thou  ?    Open  thine  heart  wide, 

And  fold  within  the  wet  wrings  of  thy  dove. 

"  In  this  series  of  sonnets  we  have  unquestionably  one  of  Miss 
Barrett's  most  beautiful  and  worthy  productions.     In  style  they  are 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  97 


openly — indeed  by  the  title  avowedly — an  imitation  of  the  four- 
teenth and  fifteenth  century  love-poetry ;  but  to  imitate  this  is  so 
nearly  equivalent  to  imitating  nature  of  the  simplest  and  loftiest 
kind,  that  it  is  scarcely  to  be  spoken  of  as  a  defect  of  originality. 
The  forty-four  sonnets  constitute  consecutive  stanzas  of  what  is 
properly  speaking  one  poem.  They  are  lofty,  simple,  and  passion- 
ate— not  at  all  the  less  passionate  for  being  highly  intellectual  and 
even  metaphysical."  * 

In  1846  Miss  Barrett  married  Robert  Browning,  the  poet,  and  re- 
moved to  Florence,  Italy.  "  The  proud  and  happy  bride  of  a  man 
of  genius,  she  wakes  to  new  interests ;  the  world  itself  grows  large, 
and  present,  and  vivid  before  her.  Its  manifold  progress,  its  politics, 
its  social  hopes  and  activities,  and  especially  the  great  political 
revolution  she  witnessed  in  Italy, — all  these  take  possession  of  her 
heart,  and  impress  a  new  character  on  her  poetry.  She  who  had 
lived  only  in  the  past  or  the  future,  lives  now  in  the  present ;  she 
who  had  lived  only  for  immortality,  lives  also  in  the  grand  life  of 
humanity."  f 

These  new  experiences  were  embodied  in  the  poem  called  Casa 
Guidi  Windows,  published  in  1851.  The  following  extracts  will  re- 
veal, to  some  extent,  the  leading  features  of  this  poem: 

The  day  was  such  a  day 

As  Florence  owes  the  sun.    The  sky  above, 
Its  weight  upon  the  mountains  seemed  to  lay, 

And  palpitate  in  glory  like  a  dove 
Who  has  flown  too  fast,  full-hearted ! — take  away 

The  image !  for  the  heart  of  man  beat  higher 
That  day  in  Florence,  flooding  all  her  streets 

And  piazzas  with  a  tumult  and  desire. 
The  people,  with  accumulated  heats, 

And  faces  turned  one  way,  as  if  one  fire 
Both  drew  and  flushed  them,  left  their  ancient  beats, 

And  went  up  toward  the  palace — Pitti  wall, 
To  thank  their  Grand-duke,  who,  not  quite  of  course, 

Had  graciously  permitted,  at  their  call, 
The  citizens  to  use  their  civic  force 

To  guard  their  civic  homes. 

So,  one  and  all, 
The  Tuscan  cities  streamed  up  to  the  source 

Of  this  new  good,  at  Florence ;  taking  it 
As  good  so  far,  presageful  of  more  good, — 

The  first  torch  of  Italian  freedom,  lit 

*  North  British  Review,  Feb.,  1857.  t  British  Quarterly  Review,  Oct.,  1861. 

9  G 


98  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


To  toss  in  the  next  tiger's  face  who  should 
Approach  too  near  them  in  a  greedy  fit, — 

The  first  pulse  of  an  even  flow  of  blood, 
To  prove  the  level  of  Italian  veins 

Toward  rights  perceived  and  granted. 

How  we  gazed 

From  Casa  Guidi  windows,  while,  in  trains 
Of  orderly  procession — banners  raised, 

And  intermittent  bursts  of  martial  strains 
Which  died  upon  the  shout,  as  if  amazed 

By  gladness  beyond  music — they  passed  on ! 
The  magistracy,  with  insignia,  passed ; 

And  all  the  people  shouted  in  the  sun, 
And  all  the  thousand  windows  which  had  cast 

A  ripple  of  silks,  in  blue  and  scarlet,  down, 
As  if  the  houses  overflowed  at  last, 

Seemed  growing  larger  with  fair  heads  and  eyes. 
The  lawyers  passed ;  and  still  arose  the  shout, 

And  hands  broke  from  the  windows  to  surprise 
Those  grave,  calm  brows  with  bay -tree  leaves  thrown  out. 

The  priesthood  passed :  the  friars,  with  worldly-wise, 
Keen  sidelong  glances  from  their  beards  about 

The  street  to  see  who  shouted !  many  a  monk 
Who  takes  a  long  rope  in  the  waist,  was  there ! 

Whereat  the  popular  exultation  drunk 
With  indrawn  "  vivas/'  the  whole  sunny  air, 

While  through  the  murmuring  windows  rose  and  sunk 
A  cloud  of  kerchiefed  hands !  "  the  church  makes  fair 

Her  welcome  in  the  new  Pope's  name."    Ensued 
The  black  sign  of  the  "  martyrs ! "  name  no  name, 

But  count  the  graves  in  silence. 

Next,  were  viewed 
The  artists ;  next,  the  trades ;  and  after  came 

The  people, — flag  and  sign,  and  rights  as  good, — 
And  very  loud  the  shout  was  for  that  same 

Motto,  "  II  Popolo,"  II  Popolo,— 
The  word  means  dukedom,  empire,  majesty, 

And  kings  in  such  an  hour  might  read  it  so. 
And  next,  with  banners,  each  in  his  degree, 

Deputed  representatives  a-row 
Of  every  separate  state  of  Tuscany : 

Siena's  she-wolf,  bristling  on  the  fold 
Of  the  first  flag,  preceded  Pisa's  hare ; 

And  Massa's  lion  floated  calm  in  gold, 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


Pienza's  following  with  his  silver  stare ; 

Arezzo's  steed  pranced  clear  from  bridle-hold, — 
And  well  might  shout  our  Florence,  greeting  there 

These,  and  more  brethren ! 

Last,  the  world  had  sent 
The  various  children  of  her  teeming  flanks — 

Greeks,  English,  French — as  if  to  a  parliament 
Of  lovers  of  her  Italy  in  ranks, 

Each  bearing  its  land's  symbols  reverent ; 
At  which  the  stones  seemed  breaking  into  thanks 

And  rattling  up  the  sky,  such  sounds  in  proof 
Arose !  the  very  house-walls  seemed  to  bend, 

The  very  windows,  up  from  door  to  roof, 
Flashed  out  a  rapture  of  bright  heads,  to  mend 

With  passionate  looks,  the  gesture's  whirling  off 
A  hurricane  of  leaves  I 

Three  hours  did  end 

While  all  these  passed ;  and  ever  in  the  crowd, 
Rude  men,  unconscious  of  the  tears  that  kept 

Their  beards  moist,  shouted ;  some  few  laughed  aloud, 
And  none  asked  any  why  they  laughed  and  wept : 

Friends  kissed  each  other's  cheeks,  and  foes  long  vowed 
Did  it  move  warmly ;  two  months'  babies  leapt 

Right  upward  in  their  mother's  arms,  whose  black, 
Wide,  glittering  eyes  looked  elsewhere ;  lovers  pressed 

Each  before  either,  neither  glancing  back ; 
And  peasant  maidens,  smoothly  'tired  and  tressed, 

Forgot  to  finger  on  their  throats  the  slack 
Great  pearl-strings ;  while  old  blind  men  would  not  rest, 

But  pattered  with  their  staves  and  slid  their  shoes 
Along  the  stones,  and  smiled  as  if  they  saw. 

And  Vallombrosa,  we  two  went  to  see 

Last  June,  beloved  companion, — where  sublime 
The  mountains  live  in  holy  families, 

And  the  slow  pinewoods  ever  climb  and  climb 
Half  up  their  breasts ;  just  stagger  as  they  seize 

Some  gray  crag — drop  back  with  it  many  a  time, 
And  straggle  blindly  down  the  precipice ! 

The  Vallombrosan  brooks  were  strewn  as  thick 
That  June  day,  knee-deep,  with  dead  beechen  leaves, 

As  Milton  saw  them  ere  his  heart  grew  sick, 
And  his  eyes  blind. 

O  waterfalls 
And  forests !  sound  and  silence !  mountains  bare, 


100  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


That  leap  up  peak  by  peak,  and  catch  the  palls 
Of  purple  and  silver  mist  to  rend  and  share 

With  one  another,  at  electric  calls 
Of  life  in  the  sunbeams, — till  we  cannot  dare 

Fix  your  shapes,  count  your  number !  we  must  think 
Your  beauty  and  your  glory  helped  to  fill 

The  cup  of  Milton's  soul  so  to  the  brink, 
He  never  more  was  thirsty  when  God's  will 

Had  shattered  to  his  sense  the  last  chain-link 
By  which  he  had  drawn  from  Nature's  visible 

The  fresh  well-water.    Satisfied  by  this, 
He  sang  of  Adam's  paradise  and  smiled, 

Remembering  Vallombrosa.    Therefore  is 
The  place  divine  to  English  man  and  child — • 

And  pilgrims  leave  their  souls  here  in  a  kiss. 

A  cry  is  up  in  England,  which  doth  ring 

The  hollow  world  through,  that  for  ends  of  trade 

And  virtue,  and  God's  better  worshipping, 

We  henceforth  should  exalt  the  name  of  Peace, 

And  leave  those  rusty  wars  that  eat  the  soul, — 
Beside  their  clippings  at  our  golden  fleece. 

I,  too,  have  loved  peace,  and  from  bole  to  bole 

Of  immemorial,  undeciduous  trees, 
Would  write,  as  lovers  use,  upon  a  scroll 

The  holy  name  of  Peace,  and  set  it  high 
Where  none  could  pluck  it  down.    On  trees,  I  say, — 

Not  upon  gibbets ! — With  the  greenery 
Of  dewy  branches  and  the  flowery  May, 

Sweet  mediation  betwixt  earth  and  sky 
Providing,  for  the  shepherd's  holiday  ! 

Not  upon  gibbets !  though  the  vulture  leaves 
The  bones  to  quiet,  which  he  first  picked  bare. 

Not  upon  dungeons !  though  the  wretch  who  grieves 
And  groans  within,  stirs  less  the  outer  air 

Than  any  little  field-mouse  stirs  the  sheaves. 
Not  upon  chain-bolts !  though  the  slave's  despair 

Has  dulled  his  helpless,  miserable  brain, 
And  left  him  blank  beneath  the  freeman's  whip, 

To  sing  and  laugh  out  idiocies  of  pain. 
Nor  yet  on  starving  homes  I  where  many  a  lip 

Has  sobbed  itself  asleep  through  curses  vain ! 
I  love  no  peace  which  is  not  fellowship, 

And  which  includes  not  mercy. 

I  would  have 
Rather  the  raking  of  the  guns  across 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BKQ,W3ftJr8.'>  '  it)!* 

The  world,  and  shrieks  against  Heaven's  architrave. 
Rather  the  struggle  in  the  slippery  fosse 

Of  dying  men  and  horses,  and  the  wave 
Blood-bubbling.  .  .  Enough  said ! — By  Christ's  own  cross, 

And  by  the  faint  heart  of  my  womanhood, 
Such  things  are  better  than  a  Peace  which  sits 

Beside  the  hearth  in  self-commended  mood, 
And  takes  no  thought  how  wind  and  rain  by  fits 

Are  howling  out  of  doors  against  the  good 
Of  the  poor  wanderer. 

What !  your  peace  admits 

Of  outside  anguish  while  it  keeps  at  home? 
I  loathe  to  take  its  name  upon  my  tongue — 

'Tis  nowise  peace.    Tis  treason,  stiff  with  doom, — 
'T  is  gagged  despair,  and  inarticulate  wrong, 

Annihilated  Poland,  stifled  Rome, 
Dazed  Naples,  Hungary  fainting  'neath  the  thong, 

And  Austria  wearing  a  smooth  olive-leaf 
On  her  brute  forehead,  while  her  hoofs  outpress 

The  life  from  these  Italian  souls,  in  brief. 
O  Lord  of  Peace,  who  art  Lord  of  Righteousness, 

Constrain  the  anguished  worlds  from  sin  and  grief, 
Pierce  them  with  conscience,  purge  them  with  redress, 

And  give  us  peace  which  is  no  counterfeit ! 

"  Casa  Guidi  Windows  is,  to  our  thinking,  the  happiest  of  its 
author's  performances,  if  not  the  highest.  The  difficulty  of  the 
metre,  in  which  every  rhyme  occurs  thrice,  here  as  in  the  sonnet, 
seems  to  act  as  a  restraint  upon  the  authoress's  imagination,  pre- 
venting it  from  indulging  in  that  kind  of  flight  of  which  boldness 
may  be  said  to  be  the  only  recommendation.  Her  genius  nowhere 
rises  in  so  spirited  a  style,  or  maintains  so  steady  an  altitude,  as  in 
those  poems  in  which  she  submits  herself  to  the  heaviest  fetters  of 
external  form  ;  whereas  in  blank  verse,  and  in  other  measures,  not 
sufficiently  weighted  with  rule,  her  imagination  '  pitches '  like  a  kite 
without  a  tail."  * 

In  1856  appeared  Aurora  Leigh — Mrs.  Browning's  most  elaborate 
work.  "  This  poem  is  two  thousand  lines  longer  than  '  Paradise 
Lost.'  We  do  not  know  how  to  describe  it  better  than  by  saying 
that  it  is  a  novel  in  verse,  a  novel  of  the  modern  didactic  species, 
written  chiefly  for  the  advocacy  of  distinct '  convictions  upon  Life 
and  Art.'  "  *  As  a  sample  of  the  descriptive  energy  of  the  work, 
we  present  the  following  extract : 

*  North  British  Review,  Feb.,  1857. 
9* 


1'0'2  MANUAL  'OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

I  had  a  little  chamber  in  the  house, 

As  green  as  any  privet-hedge  a  bird 

Might  choose  to  build  in,  though  the  nest  itself 

Could  show  but  dead-brown  sticks  and  straws ;  the  walls 

Were  green,  the  carpet  was  pure  green,  the  straight, 

Small  bed  was  curtained  greenly,  and  the  folds 

Hung  green  about  the  window,  which^let  in 

The  out-door  world  with  all  its  greenery. 

You  could  not  push  your  head  out  and  escape 

A  dash  of  dawn-dew  from  the  honeysuckle, 

But  so  you  were  baptized  into  the  grace 

And  privilege  of  seeing,  .  .  . 

First,  the  lime, 

(I  had  enough  there,  of  the  lime,  be  sure, — 
My  morning-dream,  was  often  hummed  away 
By  the  bees  in  it ;)  past  the  lime,  the  lawn, 
Which,  after  sweeping  broadly  round  the  house, 
Went  trickling  through  the  shrubberies  in  a  stream 
Of  tender  turf,  and  wove  and  lost  itself 
Among  the  acacias,  over  which  you  saw 
The  irregular  line  of  elms  by  the  deep  lane 
Which  stopped  the  grounds  and  dammed  the  overflow 
Of  arbutus  and  laurel.    Out  of  sight 
The  lane  was ;  sunk  so  deep,  no  foreign  tramp 
Nor  drover  of  wild  ponies  out  of  Wales 
Could  guess  if  lady's  hall  or  tenant's  lodge 
Dispensed  such  odors, — though  his  stick  well-crooked 
Might  reach  the  lowest  trail  of  blossoming  briar 
Which  dipped  upon  the  wall. 

Behind  the  elms, 

And  through  their  tops,  you  saw  the  folded  hills 
Striped  up  and  down  with  hedges  (burly  oaks 
Projecting  from  the  lines  to  show  themselves), 
Through  which  my  cousin  Romney's  chimneys  smoked 
As  still  as  when  a  silent  mouth  on  frost 
Breathes — showing  where  the  woodlands  hid  Leigh  Hall ; 
While,  far  above,  a  jut  of  table-land, 
A  promontory  without  water,  stretched, — 
You  could  not  catch  it  if  the  days  were  thick, 
Or  took  it  for  a  cloud ;  but,  otherwise 
The  vigorous  sun  would  catch  it  up  at  eve 
And  use  it  for  an  anvil  till  he  had  filled 
The  shelves  of  heaven  with  burning  thunderbolts, 
And  proved  he  need  not  rest  so  early : — then, 
When  all  his  setting  trouble  was  resolved 
To  a  trance  of  passive  glory,  you  might  see 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  103 

In  apparition  on  the  golden  sky 
( Alas,  my  Giotto's  background ! )  the  sheep  run 
Along  the  fine  clear  outline,  small  as  mice 
That  run  along  a  witch's  scarlet  thread. 

Not  a  grand  nature.    Not  my  chestnut- woods 
Of  Vallombrosa,  cleaving  by  the  spurs 
To  the  precipices.    Not  my  headlong  leaps 
Of  waters,  that  cry  out  for  joy  or  fear 
In  leaping  through  the  palpitating  pines, 
Like  a  white  soul  tossed  out  to  eternity 
With  thrills  of  time  upon  it.    Not  indeed 
My  multitudinous  mountains,  sitting  in 
The  magic  circle,  with  the  mutual  touch 
Electric,  panting  from  their  full  deep  hearts 
Beneath  the  influent  heavens,  and  waiting  for 
Communion  and  commission.    Italy 
Is  one  thing,  England  one. 

As  a  passage  in  the  philosophic  and  didactic  vein,  this : 

Natural  things 

And  spiritual, — who  separates  those  two 
In  art,  in  morals,  or  the  social  drift, 
Tears  up  the  bond  of  nature  and  brings  death, 
Paints  futile  pictures,  writes  unreal  verse, 
Leads  vulgar  days,  deals  ignorantly  with  men, 
Is  wrong,  in  short,  at  all  points.    We  divide 
This  apple  of  life,  and  cut  it  through  the  pips, — 
The  perfect  round  which  fitted  Venus'  hand 
Has  perished  utterly  as  if  we  ate 
Both  halves. 

Without  the  spiritual,  observe, 
The  natural 's  impossible  ; — no  form, 
No  motion !     Without  sensuous,  spiritual 
Is  inappreciable  ; — no  beauty  or  power ! 
And  in  this  twofold  sphere  the  twofold  man 
( And  still  the  artist  is  intensely  a  man ) 
Holds  firmly  by  the  natural,  to  reach 
The  spiritual  beyond  it, — fixes  still 
The  type  with  mortal  vision,  to  pierce  through, 
With  eyes  immortal,  to  the  antetype 
Some  call  the  ideal, — better  call  the  real, 
And  certain  to  be  called  so  presently 
When  things  shall  have  their  names.    Look  long  enough 
On  any  peasant's  face  here,  coarse  and  lined, 
You  '11  catch  Antinous  somewhere  in  that  clay, 
As  perfect-featured  as  he  yearns  at  Rome 


MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

From  marble  pale  with  beauty ;  then  persist, 
And,  if  your  apprehension's  competent, 
You  '11  find  some  fairer  angel  at  his  back, 
As  much  exceeding  him,  as  he  the  boor, 
And  pushing  him  with  empyreal  disdain 
For  ever  out  of  sight. 

"  There's  nothing  great 
Nor  small,"  has  said  a  poet  of  our  day, 
( Whose  voice  will  ring  beyond  the  curfew  of  eve 
And  not  be  thrown  out  by  the  matin's  bell, ) 
And  truly,  I  reiterate,  .  .  nothing 's  small ! 
No  lily-muffled  hum  of  a  summer-bee 
But  finds  some  coupling  with  the  spinning  stars ; 
No  pebble  at  your  foot,  but  proves  a  sphere ; 
No  chaffinch,  but  implies  the  cherubim : 
And, — glancing  on  my  own  thin,  veined  wrist, — 
In  such  a  little  tremor  of  the  blood 
The  whole  strong  clamor  of  a  vehement  soul 
Doth  utter  itself  distinct.    Earth 's  crammed  with  heaven, 
And  every  common  bush  afire  with  God : 
But  only  he  who  sees,  takes  off  his  shoes, 
The  rest  sit  round  it  and  pluck  blackberries, 
And  daub  their  natural  faces  unaware 
More  and  more,  from  the  first  similitude. 

Our  last  extract  discloses  Aurora  Leigh's  emotions  on  return- 
ing as  a  mature  woman  to  the  Italian  home  of  her  childhood. 

I  took  up  the  old  days 

With  all  their  Tuscan  pleasures,  worn  and  spoiled, — 
Like  some  lost  book  we  dropped  in  the  long  grass 
On  such  a  happy  summer-afternoon 
When  last  we  read  it  with  a  loving  friend, 
And  find  in  autumn,  when  the  friend  is  gone, 
The  grass  cut  short,  the  weather  changed,  too  late, 
And  stare  at,  as  at  something  wonderful 
For  sorrow, — thinking  how  two  hands,  before, 
Had  held  up  what  is  left  to  only  one, 
And  how  we  smiled  when  such  a  vehement  nail 
Impressed  the  tiny  dint  here,  which  presents 
This  verse  in  fire  forever ! 

Tenderly 

And  mournfully  I  lived.    I  knew  the  birds 
And  insects, — which  look  fathered  by  the  flowers 
And  emulous  of  their  hues :  I  recognized 
The  moths,  with  that  great  overpoise  of  wings 
Which  makes  a  mystery  of  them  how  at  all 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  105 

They  can  stop  flying :  butterflies,  that  be.ar 

Upon  their  blue  wings  such  red  emblems  round, 

They  seem  to  scorch  the  blue  air  into  holes 

Each  flight  they  take :  and  fire-flies,  that  suspire 

In  short,  soft  lapses  of  transported  flame 

Across  the  tingling  Dark,  while  overhead 

The  constant  and  inviolable  stars 

Outburn  those  lights  of  love :  melodious  owls, 

(If  music  had  but  one  note  and  was  sad, 

'T  would  sound  just  so,)  and  all  the  silent  swirl 

Of  bats,  that  seem  to  follow  in  the  air 

Some  grand  circumference  of  a  shadowy  dome 

To  which  we  are  blind :  and  then,  the  nightingales, 

Which  pluck  our  heart  across  a  garden-wall, 

(When  walking  in  the  town)  and  carry  it 

So  high  into  the  bowery  almond-trees, 

We  tremble  and  are  afraid,  and  feel  as  if 

The  golden  flood  of  moonlight  unaware 

Dissolved  the  pillars  of  the  steady  earth 

And  made  it  less  substantial. 

And  I  knew 

The  harmless  opal  snakes,  and  large-mouthed  frogs, 
(Those  noisy  vaunters  of  their  shallow  streams,) 
And  lizards,  the  green  lightnings  of  the  wall, 
Which,  if  you  sit  down  still,  nor  sigh  too  loud, 
Will  flatter  you,  and  take  you  for  a  stone, 
And  flash  familiarly  about  your  feet 
With  such  prodigious  eyes  in  such  small  heads ! — 
I  knew  them,  though  they  had  somewhat  dwindled  from 
My  childish  imagery, — and  kept  in  mind 
How  last  I  sat  among  them  equally, 
In  fellowship  and  mateship,  as  a  child 
Will  bear  him  still  toward  insect,  beast,  and  bird, 
Before  the  Adam  in^him  has  foregone 
All  privilege  of  Eden, — making  friends 
And  talk  with  such  a  bird  or  such  a  goat, 
And  buying  many  a  two-inch-wide  rush-cage 
To  let  out  the  caged  cricket  on  a  tree, 
Saying,  "Oh,  my  dear  grillino,  were  you  cramped? 
And  are  you  happy  with  the  ilex-leaves  ? 
And  do  you  love  me  who  have  let  you  go  ? 
Say  yes  in  singing,  and  I  '11  understand." 

But  now  the  creatures  all  seemed  farther  off, 
No  longer  mine,  nor  like  me ;  only  there, 
A  gulf  between  us.    I  could  yearn  indeed, 
Like  other  rich  one,  for  a  drop  of  dew 


106  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

To  cool  this  heat, — a  drop  of  the  early  dew, 
The  irrecoverable  child-innocence, 
(Before  the  heart  took  fire  and  withered  life,) 
When  childhood  might  pair  equally  with  birds ; 
But  now  .  . .  the  birds  were  grown  too  proud  for  us ! 
Alas,  the  very  sun  forbids  the  dew. 

And  I,  I  had  come  back  to  an  empty  nest, 

Which  every  bird 's  too  wise  for.    How  I  heard 

My  father's  step  on  that  deserted  ground, 

His  voice  along  that  silence,  as  he  told 

The  names  of  bird  and  insect,  tree  and  flower, 

And  all  the  presentations  of  the  stars 

Across  Valdarno,  interposing  still 

"  My  child,"  "  my  child."    When  fathers  say  "  my  child," 

'Tis  easier  to  conceive  the  universe, 

And  life's  transitions  down  the  steps  of  law. 

"The  command  of  imagery  shown  by  Mrs.  Browning  in  this 
poem  is  really  surprising,  even  in  this  day  when  every  poetaster 
seems  to  be  endowed  with  a  more  or  less  startling  amount  of  that 
power;  but  Mrs.  Browning  seldom  goes  out  of  her  way  for  an 
image,  as  nearly  all  our  other  versifiers  are  in  the  habit  of  doing 
continually.  There  is  a  vital  continuity  through  the  whole  of  this 
immensely  long  work,  which  is  thus  remarkably  and  most  favorably 
distinguished  from  the  sand-weaving  of  so  many  of  her  contempo- 
raries. The  earnestness  of  the  authoress  is  also,  plainly,  without 
affectation,  and  her  enthusiasm  for  truth  and  beauty,  as  she  appre- 
hends them,  unbounded.  A  work  upon  such  a  scale,  and  with 
such  a  scope,  had  it  been  faultless,  would  have  been  the  greatest 
work  of  the  age ;  but,  unhappily,  there  are  faults,  and  very  serious 
ones.  The  poem  has  evidently  been  written  in  a  very  small  pro- 
portion of  the  time  which  a  work  so  very  ambitiously  conceived 
ought  to  have  taken.  The  language,  which  in  passionate  scenes  is 
simple  and  real,  in  other  parts  becomes  very  turgid  and  unpoetical. 
These,  and  other  artistic  defects,  detract  somewhat  from  the  gen- 
eral effect  of  the  poem  ;  but  no  one  who  reads  it  with  true  poetic 
sympathy,  can  withhold  his  tribute  of  admiration  from  a  work 
possessing  so  many  of  the  highest  excellencies."  * 

Poems  before  Congress  or  Napoleon  III.  was  published  in  1860,  and 
set  forth  our  author's  opinions  upon  French  affairs.  In  1863,  a 
volume  entitled  Last  Poems,  comprising  chiefly  verses  left  in  man- 
uscript, made  its  appearance,  thus  completing  Mrs.  Browning's 
writings.  She  died  in  Florence,  June  29,  1861,  in  the  same  house 


*  JVo?-//t  British  Review,  Feb., 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.  107 


(Casa  Guidi)  in  which  she  had  lived  fourteen  years,  and  where  her 
entire  married  life  had  been  passed. 

"Mrs.  Browning's  greatest  failure  is  in  her  metaphors :  some  of 
them  are  excellent,  but  when  they  are  bad — and  they  are  often 
bad — they  are  very  bad.  13y  a  single  ugly  phrase,  a  single  hideous 
word,  she  every  now  and  then  mars  the  harmony  of  a  whole  page 
of  beauty.  She  sadly  wants  simplicity,  and  the  calm  strength  that 
flows  from  it.  She  writes  in  a  high  fever.  She  is  constantly  intro- 
ducing geographical,  geological,  and  antiquarian  references,  almost 
always  out  of  place,  and  often  incorrect.  .  .  In  recoil  from  mincing" 
fastidiousness,  she  now  and  then  seems  coarse.  She  will  not  be 
taxed  with  squeamishness,  and  introduces  words  unnecessarily 
which  are  eschewed  in  the  most  familiar  conversation.  .  •.  In  the 
presentation  alike  of  character  and  scenery,  Mrs.  Browning  has 
proved  herself  in  every  sense  a  master.  Those  pictures  of  England 
and  of  Italy,  which  so  adorn  the  first  and  seventh  books  of  Aurora 
Leigh,  will  take  a  permanent  rank  among  our  best  specimens  of 
descriptive  poetry."  * 

"A  general  tone  of  sadness  pervades  Mrs.  Browning's  poetry. 
As  we  read,  there  is  a  constant  feeling  that  the  writer  is  one  weary 
of  the  world.  This  is  not  apparently  from  disappointment  or 
pressure  of  any  great  grief,  still  less  from  cynicism  or  unbelieving 
despair.  Every  page  evinces  a  deep-felt  love  for  man  as  well  as  a 
heart  at  rest  with  God.  The  sadness  is  of  that  far  nobler  cast, 
peculiar  to  higher  and  unworldly  natures,  and  which  in  part  consti- 
tutes the  melancholy  so  often  attributed  to  poets.  It  arises  from 
the  constant  presence  of  an  ideal,  which,  though  originally  gained 
amidst  the  contemplation  of  earthly  things,  makes  all  the  glory  of 
earth  look  pale."  t 


*  Westminster  Review,  Oct.,  1857.  f  British  Quarterly  Review,  Oct.,  1865. 


WALTER  SAVAGE   LANDOR. 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR  was  born,  January  30,  1775,  at 
Warwick,  "  in  the  best  house  of  the  town.':  Wealth  and  Refine- 
ment met  him  on  the  threshold  of  life,  bestowing,  among  their 
earliest  gifts,  education  at  Rugby  School  (1785),  and  at  Trinity 
College,  Oxford  (1793),  and  qualifying  him  for  the  bar.  He  re- 
mained on  the  family  estate,  in  the  chosen  employment  of  letters, 
until  about  1805 ;  during  which  interval  he  gave  to  the  world 
(or  rather  a  chosen  few  of  it)  a  first  volume  of  poems  (1795) 
and  GeUr  (1798). 

Of  Gebir,  the  poet  Southey,  in  a  letter  to  its  author,  says :  "  I 
look  upon  Gebir  as  I  do  upon  Dante's  long  poem  in  the  Italian, 
— not  as  a  good  poem,  but  as  containing  the  finest  poetry  in  the 
language."  And  De  Quincey  remarks:  "  The  main  attraction 
of  the  poem  lay  in  the  picturesqueness  of  the  images,  attitudes, 
groups,  dispersed  everywhere.  The  eye  seemed  to  rest  every- 
where upon  festal  processions,  upon  the  panels  of  Theban  gates, 
or  upon  sculptured  vases."  The  following  extract  is  from  the 
Sixth  Book  of  this  poem  : 

Now  to  Aurora  borne  by  dappled  steeds 

The  sacred  gate  of  orient  pearl  and  gold, 

Smitten  with  Lucifer's  light  silver  wand, 

Expanded  slow  to  strains  of  harmony ; 

The  waves  beneath  in  purpling  rows,  like  doves 

Glancing  with  wanton  coyness  tow'rd  their  queen, 

Heav'd  softly.  .  . 

Ocean  and  earth  and  heaven  war  jubilee, 

For  'twas  the  morning  pointed  out  by  Fate 

When  an  immortal  maid  and  mortal  man 

Should  share  each  other's  nature  knit  in  bliss. 

The  brave  Iberians  far  the  beach  o'erspread 
Ere  dawn,  with  distant  awe ;  none  hear  the  mew, 
None  mark  the  curlew  flapping  o'er  the  field ; 
Silence  held  all,  and  fond  expectancy. 
Now  suddenly  the  conch  above  the  sea 

108 


LANDOE.  109 


Sounds,  and  goes  sounding  through  the  woods  profound. 

They,  where  they  hear  the  echo,  turn  their  eyes, 

But  nothing  see  they,  save.a  purple  mist 

Roll  from  the  distant  mountain  down  the  shore ; 

It  rolls,  it  sails,  it  settles,  it  dissolves : 

Now  shines  the  Nymph  to  human  eye  reveal'd, 

And  leads  her  Tamar  timorous  o'er  the  waves. 

Immortals  crowding  round  congratulate 
The  shepherd ;  he  shrinks  back,  of  breath  bereft : 
His  vesture  clinging  closely  round  his  limbs 
Unfelt,  while  they  the  whole  fair  form  admire, 
He  fears  that  he  has  lost  it,  then  he  fears 
The  wave  has  mov'd  it,  most  to  look  he  fears. 
Scarce  the  sweet  flowing  music  he  imbibes, 
Or  sees  the  peopled  ocean ;  scarce  he  sees 
Spio  with  sparkling  eyes,  and  Berce 
Demure,  and  young  lone,  less  renown'd, 
Not  less  divine ;  mild-natured,  Beauty  form'd 
Her  face,  her  heart  Fidelity ;  for  gods 
Design'd,  a  mortal  too  lone  lov'd. 
These  were  the  Nymphs  elected  for  the  hour 
Of  Hesperus  and  Hymen ;  these  had  strown 
The  bridal  bed,  these  tuned  afresh  the  shells, 
Wiping  the  green  that  hoarsen'd  them  within ; 
These  wove  the  chaplets,  and  at  night  resolv'd 
To  drive  the  dolphins  from  the  wreathed  door. 
*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

The  Nymph  discourses : 

"  Thus  we  may  sport  at  leisure  when  we  go 
Where,  lov'd  by  Neptune  and  the  Naiad,  lov'd 
By  pensive  Dryad  pale,  and  Oread, 
The  sprightly  Nymph  whom  constant  Zephyr  woos, 
Rhine  rolls  his  beryl-color'd  wave ;  than  Rhine 
What  river  from  the  mountains  ever  came 
More  stately  ?  most  the  simple  crown  adorns 
Of  rushes  and  of  willows  intertwined 
With  here  and  there  a  flower :  his  lofty  brow 
Shaded  with  vines  and  mistletoe  and  oak 
He  rears,  and  mystic  bards  his  fame  resound. 
Or  gliding  opposite,  th'  Illyrian  gulf 
Will  harbor  us  from  ill."    While  thus  she  spake 
She  toucht  his  eyelashes  with  libant  lip 
And  breath'd  ambrosial  odors,  o'er  his  cheek 
Celestial  w^armth  suffusing :  grief  disperst, 
And  strength  and  pleasure  beam'd  upon  his  brow. 
Then  pointed  she  before  him  r  first  arose 
10 


110  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

To  her  astonisht  and  delighted  view 
The  sacred  isle  that  shrines  the  queen  of  love. 
It  stood  so  near  him,  so  acute  each  sense, 
That  not  the  sympathy  of  lutes  alone 
Or  coo  serene  or  billing  strife  of  doves, 
But  murmurs,  whispers,  nay  the  very  sighs 
Which  he  himself  had  utter' d  once,  he  heard. 
Next,  but  long  after  and  far  off,  appear 
The  cloudlike  cliffs  and  thousand  towers  of  Crete, 
And  further  to  the  right  the  Cyclades ; 
Phoebus  had  rais'd  and  fixt  them,  to  surround 
His  native  Delos  and  aeriel  fane. 
He  saw  the  land  of  Pelope,  host  of  gods, 
.  Saw  the  steep  ridge  where  Corinth  after  stood 
Beckoning  the  serious  with  the  smiling  Arts 

Into  her  sunbright  bay 

He  heard  the  voice  of  rivers ;  he  descried 

Pindan  Peneus  and  the  slender  Nymphs 

That  tread  his  banks  but  fear  the  thundering  tide ; 

These,  and  Amphrysos  and  Apidanos 

And  poplar-crown'd  Sperchios,  and,  reclined 

On  restless  rocks,  Enipeus,  where  the  winds 

Scatter'd  above  the  weeds  his  hoary  hair. 


"  Look  yonder !  "  cried  the  Nymph.    Tamar  lookt 
Where  the  waves  whitened  on  the  desert  shore. 
When  from  amid  grey  ocean  first  he  caught 
The  heights  of  Calpe,  sadden'd  he  exclaim'd, 
"  Rock  of  Iberia ! — fixt  by  Jove,  and  hung 
With  all  his  thunder-bearing  clouds,  I  hail 
Thy  ridges  rough  and  cheerless !  what  tho'  Spring 
Nor  kiss  thy  brow  nor  cool  it  with  a  flower, 
Yet  will  I  hail  thee,  hail  thy  flinty  couch 
Where  Valor  and  where  Virtue  have  reposed." 

The  Nymph  said,  sweetly  smiling,  "  Fickle  Man, 

Would'st  thou  thy  country  ?  would'st  those  caves  abhorr'd, 

Dungeons  and  portals  that  exclude  the  day  ? 

Gebir,  though  generous,  just,  humane,  inhaled 

Rank  venom  from  these  mansions.    Rest,  O  king, 

In  Egypt  thou !  nor,  Tamar !  pant  for  sway. 

With  horrid  chorus,  Pain,  Disease,  Death, 

Stamp  on  the  slippery  pavement  of  the  proud, 

And  ring  their  sounding  emptiness  through  earth, 

Possess  the  ocean,  me,  thyself,  and  peace." 

And  now  the  chariot  of  the  Sun  descends, 


LAN  DOR. 


Ill 


The  waves  rush  hurried  from  his  foaming  steeds, 
Smoke  issues  from  their  nostrils  at  the  gate, 
Which,  when  they  enter,  with  huge  golden  bar 
Atlas  and  Calpe  close  across  the  sea. 

Three  years  later  (1808)  we  find  Landor  as  a  volunteer  under 
Blake,  testing  the  perils  and  hardships  of  a  soldier's  life,  and  for 
meritorious  conduct  winning  for  himself  the  rank  of  Colonel.  In 
1811  he  married  "a  girl  without  a  sixpence,  and  with  very  few 
accomplishments,"  but  "  pretty,  graceful,  and  good-tempered,"  and 
established  himself  in  a  new  and  beautiful  estate,  the  Abbey  of 
Llanthony.  The  next  year  he  brought  out  Count  Julian;  a  Tragedy. 

COUNT  JULIAN. 
ACT  /.—SCENE  III. 

Guard.       A  messenger  of  peace  is  at  the  gate, 

My  lord,  safe  access,  private  audience, 

And  free  return,  he  claims. 
Julian.  Conduct  him  in. 

[RODERIGO  enters  as  a  herald. 

A  messenger  of  peace !  audacious  man ! 

In  what  attire  appearest  thou  ?  a  herald's  ? 

Under  no  garb  can  such  a  wretch  be  safe. 
Roderigo.    Thy  violence  and  fancied  wrongs  I  know, 

And  what  thy  sacrilegious  hands  would  do, 

O  traitor  and  apostate ! 
Julian.  What  they  would 

They  cannot :  thee  of  kingdom  and  of  life 

'T  is  easy  to  despoil,  thyself  the  traitor, 

Thyself  the  violator  of  allegiance. 

O  would  all-righteous  Heaven  they  could  restore 

The  joy  of  innocence,  the  calm  of  age, 

The  probity  of  manhood,  pride  of  arms, 

And  confidence  of  honor !  the  august 

And  holy  lawn  trampled  beneath  thy  feet, 

And  Spain !  O  parent,  I  have  lost  thee  too ! 

Yes,  thou  wilt  curse  me  in  thy  latter  days, 

Me,  thine  avenger-.    I  have  fought  her  foe, 

Roderigo,  I  have  gloried  in  her  sons, 

Sublime  in  hardihood  and  piety : 

Her  strength  was  mine :  I,  sailing  by  her  cliffs, 

By  promontory  after  promontory, 

Opening  like  flags  along  some  castle-tower, 

Have  sworn  before  the  cross  upon  our  mast 

Ne'er  shall  invader  wave  his  standard  there. 
Roderigo.   Yet  there  thou  planted  it,  false  man,  thyself. 


112 


MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Julian.       Accursed  he  who  makes  me  this  reproach, 
And  made  it  just !     Had  I  been  happy  still, 
I  had  been  blameless :  I  had  died  with  glory 
Upon  the  walls  of  Centa. 

Roderigo.  Which  thy  treason  surrendered  to  the  Infidel. 

Julian.  'T  is  hard 

And  base  to  live  beneath  a  conqueror ; 
Yet,  amid  all  this  grief  and  infamy, 
'T  were  something  to  have  rusht  upon  the  ranks 
In  their  advance ;  't  were  something  to  have  stood 
Defeat,  discomfiture,  and,  when  around 
No  beacon  blazes,  no  far  axle  groans 
Thro'  the  wide  plain,  no  sound  of  sustenance 
Or  succor  soothes  the  still-believing  ear, 
To  fight  upon  the  last  dismantled  tower, 
And  yield  to  valor,  if  we  yield  at  all. 
But  rather  should  my  neck  lie  trampled  down 
By  every  Saracen  and  Moor  on  earth, 
Than  my  own  country  see  her  laws  o'erturned 
By  those  who  should  protect  them.    Sir,  no  prince 
Shall  ruin  Spain,  and,  least  of  all,  her  own. 
Is  any  just  or  glorious  act  in  view, 
Your  oaths  forbid  it :  is  your  avarice, 
Or,  if  there  be  such,  any  viler  passion 
To  have  its  giddy  range  and  to  be  gorged, 
It  rises  over  all  your  sacraments, 
A  hooded  mystery,  holier  than  they  all.     .     .     . 

Roderigo.  Come,  I  offer  grace, 

Honor,  dominion :  send  away  these  slaves, 
Or  leave  them  to  our  sword,  and  all  beyond 
The  distant  Ebro  to  the  towns  of  France 
Shall  bless  thy  name  and  bow  before  thy  throne. 
I  will  myself  accompany  thee,  I, 
The  king,  will  hail  thee  brother. 

Julian.  Ne'er  shalt  thou 

Henceforth  be  king :  the  nation  in  thy  name 
May  issue  edicts,  champions  may  command 
The  vassal  multitudes  of  marshal'd  war, 
And  the  fierce  charger  shrink  before  the  shouts, 
Lower'd  as  if  earth  had  open'd  at  his  feet, 
While  thy  mail'd  semblance  rises  tow'rd  the  ranks, 
But  God  alone  sees  thee. 

Roderigo.  What  hopest  thou  ? 

To  conquer  Spain,  and  rule  a  ravaged  land  ? 
To  compass  me  around  ?  to  murder  me  ? 


LAND  OR.  113 


Julian.       No.    Don  Eoderigo :  swear  thou,  in  the  fight 
That  thou  wilt  meet  me,  hand  to  hand,  alone, 
That,  if  I  ever  save  thee  from  a  foe.  .  .  . 

Loderigo.    I  swear  what  honor  asks.    First,  to  Co  villa* 
Do  thou  present  my  crown  and  dignity. 

Julian.       Darest  thou  offer  any  price  for  shame  ? 

Roderigo.   Love  and  repentance. 

Julian.  Egilonaf  lives ; 

And  were  she  buried  with  her  ancestors, 
Covilla  should  not  be  the  gaze  of  men, 
Should  not,  despoil'd  of  honor,  rule  the  free. 

Roderigo.  Stern  man !  her  virtues  well  deserve  the  throne. 

Julian.       And  Egilona,  what  hath  she  deserv'd, 

The  good,  the  lovely  ? 
Roderigo.  But  the  realm  in  vain 

Hoped  a  succession. 
Julian.  Thou  hast  torn  away 

The  roots  of  royalty. 
Roderigo.   For  her,  for  thee. 

Julian.       Blind  insolence !  base  insincerity ! 

Power  and  renown  no  mortal  ever  shared 

Who  could  retain  or  grasp  them  to  himself: 

And,  for  Covilla ?  patience!  peace!  for  her? 

She  call  upon  her  God,  and  outrage  him 

At  his  own  altar !  she  repeat  the  vows 

She  violates  in  repeating !  who  abhors 

Thee  and  thy  crimes,  and  wants  no  crown  of  thine. 

Roderigo.  Have  then  the  Saracens  possest  thee  quite  ? 

And  wilt  thou  never  yield  me  thy  consent? 
Julian.       Never. 
Roderigo.   So  deep  in  guilt,  in  treachery ! 

Forced  to  acknowledge  it !  forced  to  avow 

The  traitor ! 

Julian.       Not  to  thee,  who  reignest  not, 

But  to  a  country  ever  dear  to  me, 
And  dearer  now  than  ever !    What  we  love 
Is  loveliest  in  departure !    One  I  thought, 
As  every  father  thinks,  the  best  of  all, 
Graceful  and  mild  and  sensible  and  chaste ; 
Now  all  these  qualities  of  form  and  soul 
Fade  from  before  me,  nor  on  any  one 
Can  I  repose,  or  be  consoled  by  any. 

*  Julian's  daughter.  t  Roderigo's  wife. 

10*  tt 


114:  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

And  yet  in  this  torn  heart  I  love  her  more 
Than  I  could  love  her  when  I  dwelt  on  each, 
Or  claspt  them  all  united,  and  thankt  God, 
Without  a  wish  beyond.    Away,  thou  fiend ! 

0  ignominy,  last  and  worst  of  all ! 

1  weep  before  thee  .  .  like  a  child  . .  like  mine  . . 
And  tell  my  woes,  fount  of  them  all !  to  thee ! 

In  1814,  on  account  of  financial  embarrassment  and  trouble  with 
his  tenantry,  Landor  leaves  England  for  the  Continent.  While  at 
Tours,  the  next  year,  he  published  the  Latin  poems  entitled  Idyllia 
Heroica.  Passing  through  France,  he  reaches  Italy  in  1815.  Here 
he  spends,  with  brief  interruptions  and  one  considerable  absence 
of  twenty-one  years  passed  at  Bath,  England,  the  remainder  of  his 
long  life ;  drinking  in  the  inspiration  of  Italian  skies  and  hills  and 
waters,  and  living  not  only  in  a  thorough  knowledge  of  existing 
places  and  persons,  but  even  more  in  a  profound  and  extraordinary 
intimacy  with  all  the  classic  associations  and  history  of  Southern 
Europe.  It  was  during  this  continental  life  that  he  composed  the 
greater  number  of  his  Imaginary  Conversations,  the  work  upon  which 
his  reputation  as  a  writer  chiefly  depends. 

"  What  a  weighty  book  they  (the  Imaginary  Conversations]  make ! 
How  rich  in  scholarship !  how  correct,  concise,  and  pure  in  style ! 
how  full  of  imagination,  wit,  and  humor!  how  well  informed!  how 
bold  in  speculation  !  how  various  in  interest !  how  universal  in 
sympathy !  In  these  hundred  and  twenty-five  dialogues — making 
allowance  for  every  shortcoming  or  excess — the  most  familiar  and 
the  most  august  shapes  of  the  past  are  reanimated  with  vigor,  grace, 
and  beauty.  Its  long-dead  ashes  rekindle  suddenly  their  wonted 
fires,  and  again  shoot  up  into  warmth  and  brightness.  Large  utter- 
ance, musical  and  varied  voices,  '  thoughts  that  breathe '  for  the 
world's  advancement,  '  words  that  burn '  against  the  world's  oppres- 
sion, sound  on  throughout  these  lofty  and  earnest  pages.  We  are 
in  the  high  and  good  company  of  wits  and  men  of  letters ;  of  church- 
men, lawyers,  and  statesmen;  of  party-men,  soldiers,  and  kings; 
of  the  most  tender,  delicate,  and  noble  women ;  and  of  figures  that 
seem  this  instant  to  have  left  for  us  the  Agora  or  the  schools  of 
Athens,  the  Forum  or  the  Senate  of  Rome.  At  one  moment  we 
have  politicians  discussing  the  deepest  questions  of  state ;  at  an- 
other, philosophers  still  more  largely  philosophizing, — poets  talk- 
ing of  poetry,  men  of  the  world  of  worldly  matters,  Italians  and 
French  of  their  respective  Literatures  and  Manners."* 


Edinburgh  Rcvinv,  Vol.  Ixxxui. 


LANDOR.  115 


Space  and  our  poet's  best  interests  will  not  warrant  us  in  present- 
ing entire  any  one  of  the  Conversations  ;  we  shall  therefore  confine 
ourself  to  a  few  significant  and  characteristic  extracts  from  them. 

From  Marchese  Pallavincini  and  Walter  Landor. 

Who  in  the  world  could  ever  cut  down  a  linden,  or  dare  in  his  senses 
to  break  a  twig  from  off  one?  To  a  linden  was  fastened  the  son  of  William 
Tell,  when  the  apple  was  cloven  on  his  head.  Years  afterward,  often  did 
the  father  look  higher  and  lower,  and  searched  laboriously,  to  descry  if 
any  mark  were  remaining  of  the  cord  upon  its  bark !  often  must  he  have 
inhaled  this  very  odor !  what  a  refreshment  was  it  to  a  father's  breast! 
The  flowers  of  the  linden  should  be  the  only  incense  offered  up  in  the 
churches  to  God.  Happy  the  man  whose  aspirations  are  pure  enough  to 
mingle  with  it ! 

How  many  fond  and  how  many  lively  thoughts  have  been  nurtured 
under  this  tree !  how  many  kind  hearts  have  beaten  here !  Its  branches 
are  not  so  numerous  as  the  couples  they  have  invited  to  sit  beside  it,  nor 
its  blossoms  and  leaves  as  the  expressions  of  tenderness  it  has  witnessed. 
What  appeals  to  the  pure  all-seeing  heavens !  what  similitudes  to  the  ever- 
lasting mountains!  what  protestations  of  eternal  truth  and  constancy! 
from  those  who  now  are  earth ;  they,  and  their  shrouds,  and  their  coffins! 
The  caper  and  fig-tree  have  split  the  monument.  Emblems  of  past  loves 
and  future  hopes,  severed  names  which  the  holiest  rites  united,  broken 
letters  of  brief  happiness,  bestrew  the  road,  and  speak  to  the  passer-by  in 
vain. 

From  Landor,  English  Visitor,  and  Florentine  Visitor. 

If  anything  could  engage  me  to  visit  Rome,  to  endure  the  sight  of  her 
scarred  and  awful  ruins,  telling  their  stories  on  the  ground  in  the  midst  of 
bell-ringers  and  pantomimes ;  if  I  could  let  charnel-houses  and  opera- 
houses,  consuls  arid  popes,  tribunes  and  cardinals,  senatorial  orators  and 
preaching  friars,  clash  in  my  mind;  it  would  be  that  1  might  afterward 
spend  an  hour  in  solitude,  where  the  pyramid  of  Cestius  stands  against  the 
wall,  and  points  to  the  humbler  tombs  of  Keats  and  Shelley.  Nothing  so 
attracts  my  heart  as  ruins  in  deserts,  or  so  repels  it  as  ruins  in  the  circle 
of  fashion.  What  is  so  shocking  as  the  hard  verity  of  Death  swept  by  the 
rustling  masquerade  of  Life!  And  does  not  Mortality  of  herself  teach  us 
how  little  we  are,  without  placing  us  amid  the  trivialities  of  patch-work 
pomp,  where  Virgil  led  the  gods  to  found  an  empire,  where  Cicero  saved 
and  Csesar  shook  the  world  ! 

From  The  Cardinal- Leg  ate  Albani  and  Picture  Dealers. 

Legate.  Titian  ennobled  men;  Correggio  raised  children  into  angels; 
Raffael  performed  the  more  arduous  work  of  restoring  to  woman  her  pris- 
tine purity.  Perugino  was  worthy  of  leading  him  by  the  hand.  I  am  not 
surprised  that  Rubens  is  the  prime  favorite  of  tulip-fanciers;  but  give  me 
the  clear  warm  mornings  of  Correggio,  which  his  large-eyed  angels  so 
enjoy.  Give  me  the  glowing  afternoons  of  Titian  ;  his  majestic  men,  his 
gorgeous  women,  and  (with  a  prayer  to  protect  my  virtue)  his  Bacchantes. 
Yet,  Signors!  we  may  descant  on  grace  and  majesty  as  we  will;  believe 
me,  there  is  neither  majesty  so  calm,  concentrated,  sublime,  and  self-pos- 


116  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

sessed  (true  attributes  of  the  divine),  nor  is  there  grace  at  one  time  so  hu- 
man, at  another  time  so  superhuman,  as  in  Raffael.  He  leads  us  into 
heaven ;  but  neither  in  satin  robes  nor  with  ruddy  faces.  He  excludes 
the  glare  of  light  from  the  sanctuary  ;  but  there  is  an  ever-burning  lamp, 
an  ever-ascending  hymn  ;  and  the  purified  eye  sees,  as  distinctly  as  is  law- 
ful, the  divinity  of  the  place.  I  delight  in  Titian,  I  love  Correggio,  I 
wonder  at  the  vastness  of  Michael  Angelo ;  I  admire,  love,  wonder,  and 
then  fall  down  before  Raffael. 

From  Lucian  and  Timotheus. 

Lucian.  The  best  sight  is  not  that  which  sees  best  in  the  dark  or  the 
twilight;  for  no  objects  are  then  visible  in  their  true  colors  and  just  pro- 
portions; but  it  is  that  which  presents  to  us  things  as  they  are,  and  indi- 
cates what  is  within  our  reach  and  what  is  beyond  it.  Never  were  any 
three  writers,  of  high  celebrity,  so  little  understood  in  the  main  character, 
as  Plato,  Diogenes,  and  Epicurus.  Plato  is  a  perfect  master  of  logic  and 
rhetoric ;  and  whenever  he  errs  in  either,  as  I  have  proved  to  you  he  does 
occasionally,  he  errs  through  perseverance,  not  through  unwariness.  His 
language  often  settles  into  clear  and  most  beautiful  prose,  often  takes  an 
imperfect  and  incoherent  shape  of  poetry,  and  often,  cloud  against  cloud, 
bursts  with  a  vehement  detonation  in  the  air.  Diogenes  was  hated  both  by 
the  vulgar  and  the  philosophers.  By  the  philosophers,  because  he  exposed 
their  ignorance,  ridiculed  their  jealousies,  and  rebuked  their  pride;  by  the 
vulgar,  because  they  never  can  endure  a  man  apparently  of  their  own  class 
who  avoids  their  society  and  partakes  in  none  of  their  humors,  prejudices, 
and  animosities.  What  right  has  he  to  be  greater  or  better  than  they  are? 
he  who  wears  older  clothes,  who  eats  staler  fish,  and  possesses  no  vote  to 
imprison  or  banish  anybody.  I  am  now  ashamed  that  I  mingled  in  the 
rabble,  and  that  I  could  not  resist  the  childish  mischief  of  smoking  him  in 
his  tub.  He  was  the  wisest  man  of  his  time,  not  excepting  Aristoteles; 
for  he  knew  that  he  was  greater  than  Philip  or  Alexander.  Aristoteles  did 
not  know  that  he  himself  was,  or,  knowing  it,  did  not  act  up  to  his  knowl- 
edge ;  and  here  is  a  deficiency  of  wisdom. 

From  Andrew  Marvel  and  Bishop  Parker. 

Marvel.  Under  the  highest  of  their  immeasurable  Alps,  all  is  not  valley 
and  verdure:  in  some  places  there  are  frothy  cataracts,  there  are  the  fruit- 
less beds  of  noisy  torrents,  and  there  are  dull  and  hollow  glaciers.  He 
must  be  a  bad  writer,  or,  however,  a  very  indifferent  one,  in  whom  there 
are  no  inequalities.  The  plants  of  such  tableland  are  diminutive,  and 
never  worth  gathering.  What  would  you  think  of  .a  man's  eyes  to  which 
all  things  appear  of  the  same  magnitude  and  at  the  same  elevation  ?  You 
must  think  nearly  so  of  a  writer  who  makes  as  much  of  small  things  as  of 
great.  The  vigorous  mind  has  mountains  to  climb  and  valleys  to  repose 
in.  Is  there  any  sea  without  its  shoals  ?  On  that  which  the  poet  navigates, 
lie  rises  intrepidly  as  the  waves  rise  round  him,  and  sits  composedly  as 
they  subside. 

From  the  same. 

Marvel.  True,  my  lord !  but  in  some  we  recognize  the  dust  of  gold  and 
(he  ashes  of  the  phoenix  ;  in  others  the  dust  of  the  gateway  and  the  ashes 
of  turf  and  stubble.  With  the  greatest  rulers  upon  earth,  head  and  crown 


LAND  OR.  117 


drop  together,  and  are  overlooked.  It  is  true  we  read  of  them  in  history; 
but  we  also  read  in  history  of  crocodiles  and  hyenas.  "With  great  writers, 
whether  in  poetry  or  prose,  what  falls  alway  is  scarcely  more  or  other  than 
a  vesture.  The  features  of  the  man  are  imprinted  on  his  works;  and  more 
lamps  burn  over  them,  and  more  religiously,  than  are  lighted  in  temples 
or  churches.  Milton,  and  men  like  him,  bring  their  own  incense,  kindle 
it  with  their  own  h're,  and  leave  it  unconsumed  and  unconsumable :  and 
their  music,  by  day  and  by  night,  swells  along  a  vault  commemorate  with 
the  vault  of  heaven. 

*  *  *  *  #  *  * 

The  arrogant,  the  privileged,  the  stiff  upholders  of  established  wrong, 
the  deaf  opponents  of  equitable  reformation,  the  lazy  consumers  of  ill-re- 
quited industry,  the  fraudulent  who,  unable  to  stop  the  course  of  the  sun, 
pervert  the  direction  of  the  gnomon,  all  these  peradventures  may  be  grad- 
ually consumed  by  the  process  of  silent  contempt,  or  suddenly  scattered  by 
the  tempest  of  popular  indignation.  As  we  see  in  masquerades  the  real 
judge  and  the  real  soldier  stopped  and  mocked  by  the  fictitious,  so  do  we 
see  in  the  carnival  of  to-day  the  real  man  of  dignity  hustled,  shoved  aside, 
and  derided,  by  those  who  are  invested  with  the  semblance  by  the  milli- 
ners of  the  court.  The  populace  is  taught  to  respect  this  livery  alone,  and 
is  proud  of  being  permitted  to  look  through  the  grating  at  such  ephemeral 
frippery.  And  yet  false  gems  and  false  metals  have  never  been  valued 
above  real  ones.  Until  our  people  alter  these  notions;  until  they  estimate 
the  wise  and  virtuous  above  the  silly  and  profligate,  the  man  of  genius 
above  the  man  of  title;  until  they  hold  the  knave  and  cheat  of  St.  James' 
as  low  as  the  knave  and  cheat  of  St.  Giles' ;  they  are  fitter  for  the  slave- 
market  than  for  any  other  station. 

During  the  interval  of  Landor's  residence  at  Bath  (1836-1857), 
he  wrote  Pericles  and  Aspasia,  The  Pentameron,  Andrea  of  Hungary, 
and  several  other  plays ;  another  series  of  the  Conversations,  The 
Hellenics,  and  Last  Fruit  of  an  Old  Tree.  He  died  September  17, 1864, 
at  his  Italian  home  near  Florence,  in  the  ninetieth  year  of  his  age. 

"  With  many  high  excellencies,  Landor's  poetry  must  ever  re- 
main '  a  sealed  hook  '  to  the  multitude ;  for  whoever  prefers  to  the 
obviously  sublime,  beautiful,  and  true,  the  grotesque,  the  visionary, 
and  the  involved,  must  submit  to  be  admired  by  the  capricious 
select,  who  can  alone  relish  such  elements  in  composition.  In  the 
case  of  Landor,  this  waywardness  is  the  more  to  be  regretted  as  in 
his  genius  there  are  elements,  vigorous,  fine,  and  fresh,  which  might 
have  enabled  his  muse  to  soar  with  eagle  pinions  high  over  Par- 
nassus. He  seems,  however,  all  along,  to  have  systematically  ad- 
dressed himself  only  to  the  ear  of  an  audience  fit,  though  few,  and 
even  to  ignore  the  competency  of  a  popular  tribunal. 

"  He  moulds  exclusively  according  to  the  antique,  and  often  with 
classical  severity ;  but  although  quite  willing  to  admit  his  general 
power,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  his  independence  of  thought 
not  unfrequently  degenerates  into  a  tone  something  like  proud  self- 


118  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

sufficiency.  We  have  genius,  learning,  and  knowledge,  ever  appar- 
ently in  abundance,  but  ever  of  a  peculiar  kind ;  and  often,  after 
all,  from  a  sheer  love  of  paradox,  he  follows,  by  a  side-wind,  the 
very  authority  apparently  held  in  contempt. 

"His  poetic  diction  is  involved  and  difficult,  obscure  from  never- 
ending  attempts  at  compression,  and  only  redeemed  by  a  pictur- 
esque power,  and  a  word-painting,  in  which  he  was  subsequently 
followed  by  Hunt,  Keats,  and  Tennyson.  His  imagery  is  cold  and 
statuesque — '  we  start,  for  life  is  wanting  there ; '  but  the  habit  of 
first  composing  his  pieces  in  Latin,  and  then  translating  them  into 
his  mother  tongue— said  to  be  his  actual  practice— may  readily 
be  set  down  as  a  main  source  of  their  obscurity  and  apparent  af- 
fectation. He  has  nothing  like  geniality  of  feeling,  or  warmth  of 
coloring,  in  his  portraits  or  pictures.  His  wit  is  cumbrous ;  when 
he  exhibits  point,  it  is  rather  the  poisoned  sting  than  the  exciting 
spur ;  and  his  glitter  can  only  be  compared  to  sunshine  refracted 
from  an  icicle."  * 

*  Dr.  Moir  in  Poetical,  Literature  of  Past  Half  Century. 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


THOMAS  MOORE  was  born  in  Aungier  Street,  Dublin,  May  28, 
1779.  The  muses  of  Poetry  and  of  Music,  it  would  seem,  like 
Pharaoh's  daughter,  espied  him  when  just  emerging  into  life  on 
its  sequestered  waters,  and  claimed  him  for  their  own  divine 
child,  but  consented  to  leave  his  rearing  with  his  earth-born 
mother.  This  duty  she  discharged  most  scrupulously,  nourish- 
ing him  continually  on  scraps  of  poetry  and  patriotic  songs, 
until,  in  a  short  time,  the  precocious  young  nursling  had  well- 
nigh  converted  the  house  in  which  he  was  born — unlovely  as 
an  ark  of  bulrushes — into  a  local  Helicon,  whither  nocked  the 
young  and  the  gay  of  the  neighborhood  to  hear  his  marvellous 
singing  and  recitations. 

From  repeating  the  songs  of  others,  he  early  turned  to  cre- 
ating songs  of  his  own  ;  and  though  practical  duties  fell  to  his 
lot,  such  as  the.  weighing  and  measuring  out  of  groceries  and 
liquors  in  his  father's  store,  the  conning  of  tasks  and  the  com- 
peting for  prizes  and  degrees  at  Trinity  College,  and  the  prepa- 
ration, more  or  less  laborious,  for  entering  on  the  practice  of  law 
in  London,  yet  through  all  his  divine  instinct  of  song  asserted 
itself  more  really  and  engaged  his  powers  more  fully,  than  any 
of  these  prosaic  and  sordid  concerns. 

His  earliest  celebrity  was  gained  by  a  translation  of  the  Odes 
of  Anacreon,  in  1800.  Encouraged  by  the  eclat  of  this  perform- 
ance, he  brought  out,  the  next  year,  his  first  volume  of  original 
poems,  under  the  disguise  of  The  Poetical  Works  of  the  late  Thomas 
Little.  Then,  at  most  capricious  intervals,  during  a  period  of 
almost  half  a  century,  appeared  successively  Epistles,  Odes, 
Poems,  Melodies,  Satires,  Romances,  Biographies,  Ballads,  and 
Songs.  The  most  popular  and  truly  meritorious  of  these  were 

119 


120  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

his  Irish  Melodies,  written  from  time  to  time  between  the  years 
1807  and  1834,  and  his  Lalla  Rookh,  published  in  1817,  while 
our  poet  resided  at  Ashbourne. 

Byron  has  said  :  "  Moore  is  one  of  the  few  writers  who  will 
survive  the  age  in  which  he  so  deservedly  flourishes.  He  will 
live  in  his  Irish  Melodies.  They  will  go  down  to  posterity  with 
the  music :  both  will  last  as  long  as  Ireland,  or  as  music  and 
poetry."  Another*  adds:  "His  Irish  and  National  Melodies 
will  be  immortal ;  and  they  will  be  so  for  this  reason, — that 
they  express  the  feelings  which  spring  up  in  the  breast  of  every 
successive  generation  at  the  most  important  and  imaginative 
period  of  life.  They  have  the  delicacy  of  refined  life  without 
its  fastidiousness,  the  warmth  of  natural  feeling  without  its 
rudeness." 

Of  the  Melodies  we  present  the  following  specimens : 

THE  MEETING  OF  THE  WATERS. 

There  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a  valley  so  sweet 
As  the  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters  meet; 
Oh !  the  last  rays  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart, 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my  heart. 

Yet  it  was  not  that  nature  had  shed  o'er  the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green ; 
'Twas  not  her  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill, 
Oh!  no, — it  was  something  more  exquisite  still. 

'T  was  that  friends,  the  belov'd  of  my  bosom,  were  near, 
Who  made  every  dear  scene  of  enchantment  more  dear, 
And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  nature  improve, 
When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we  love. 

Sweet  vale  of  Avoca !  how  calm  could  I  rest 

In  thy  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends  I  love  best, 

Where  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this  cold  world  should  cease, 

And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in  peace. 

DEAR  HARP  OF  MY  COUNTRY. 

Dear  harp  of  my  country !  in  darkness  I  found  thee, 
The  cold  chain  of  silence  had  hung  o'er  thee  long, 

When  proudly,  my  own  Island  Harp,  I  unbound  thee, 
And  gave  all  thy  chords  to  light,  freedom,  and  song ! 


*Sir  Archibald  Alison  in  History  of  Europe. 


MOORE.  121 


The  warm  lay  of  love  and  the  light  note  of  gladness 
Have  waken  'd  thy  fondest,  thy  liveliest  thrill ; 

But,  so  oft  hast  thou  echo'd  the  deep  sigh  of  sadness, 
That  ev'n  in  thy  mirth  it  will  steal  from  thee  still. 

Dear  harp  of  my  country !   farewell  to  thy  numbers, 
This  sweet  wreath  of  song  is  the  last  we  shall  twine ! 

Go,  sleep  with  the  sunshine  of  Fame  on  thy  slumbers, 
Till  touch'd  by  some  hand  less  unworthy  than  mine. 

If  the  pulse  of  the  patriot,  soldier,  or  lover, 
Have  throbb'd  at  our  lay,  't  is  thy  glory  alone ; 

I  was  but  as  the  wind,  passing  heedlessly  over, 
And  all  the  wild  sweetness  I  waked  was  thy  own. 

WHEN  COLD  IN  THE  EARTH. 

When  cold  in  the  earth  lies  the  friend  thou  hast  loved, 

Be  his  faults  and  his  follies  forgot  by  thee  then; 
Or,  if  from  their  slumber  the  veil  be  removed, 

Weep  o'er  them  in  silence,  and  close  it  again. 
And,  oh !  if  't  is  pain  to  remember  how  far 

From  the  pathways  of  light  he  was  tempted  to  roam, 
Be  it  bliss  to  remember  that  thou  wert  the  star 

That  arose  on  his  darkness,  and  guided  him  home. 

From  thee  and  thy  innocent  beauty  first  came 

The  revealings,  that  taught  him  true  love  to  adore, 
To  feel  the  bright  presence,  and  turn  him  with  shame 

From  the  idols  he  blindly  had  knelt  to  before. 
O'er  the  waves  of  a  life,  long  benighted  and  wild, 

Thou  earnest,  like  a  soft,  golden  calm  o'er  the  sea; 
And  if  happiness  purely  and  glowingly  smiled 

On  his  ev'ning  horizon,  the  light  was  from  thee. 

And  tho',  sometimes,  the  shades  of  past  folly  might  rise, 

And  tho'  falsehood  again  would  allure  him  to  stray, 
He  but  turn'd  to  the  glory  that  dwelt  in  those  eyes, 

And  the  folly,  the  falsehood,  soon  vanish'd  away. 
As  the  Priests  of  the  Sun,  when  their  altar  grew  dim, 

At  the  day-beam  alone  could  its  lustre  repair, 
So,  if  virtue  a  moment  grew  languid  in  him, 

He  but  flew  to  that  smile  and  rekindled  it  there. 

Moore's  achievement  in  the  creation  of  Lalla  Rookh  has  been  esti- 
mated  by  a  very  able  review*  in  the  following  terms :  " He  has,  by 
accurate  and  extensive  reading,  imbued  his  mind  with  so  familiar 

*  Blackwood's  Magazine,  June,  1817. 
11 


122  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


a  knowledge  of  Eastern  scenery  that  we  feel  as  if  we  were  reading 
the  poetry  of  one  of  the  children  of  the  Sun.  No  European  image 
ever  breaks  or  steals  in  to  destroy  the  illusion  ;  every  tone  and  hue 
and  form  is  purely  and  intensely  Asiatic;  and  the  language,  faces, 
forms,  dresses,  mien,  sentiments,  passions,  actions,  and  characters 
of  the  different  agents  are  all  congenial  with  the  flowery  earth  they 
inhabit,  and  the  burning  sky  that  glows  over  their  heads." 

"There  is  not  only  a  richness  and  brilliancy  of  diction  and 
imagery  spread  over  the  whole  work,  that  indicate  the  greatest 
activity  and  elegance  of  fancy  in  the  author;  but  it  is  everywhere 
pervaded,  still  more  strikingly,  by  a  strain  of  tender  and  noble  feel- 
ing, poured  out  with  such  warmth  and  abundance  as  to  steal  in- 
sensibly on  the  heart  of  the  reader,  and  gradually  to  overflow  it 
with  a  tide  of  sympathetic  emotion.  There  are  passages,  indeed, 
and  these  neither  few  nor  brief,  over  which  the  very  Genius  of 
Poetry  seems  to  have  breathed  his  richest  enchantment— where  the 
melody  of  the  verse  and  the  beauty  of  the  images  conspire  so  har- 
moniously with  the  force  and  tenderness  of  the  emotion,  that  the 
whole  is  blended  into  one  deep  and  bright  stream  of  sweetness  and 
feeling,  along  which  the  spirit  of  the  reader  is  borne  passively  away, 
through  long  reaches  of  delight."* 

The  following  fragmentary  description  of  the  Haram's  chambers, 
from  the  Veiled  Prophet  of  KJwrassan,  will  serve  as  a  sample  of  our 
poet's  Oriental  word  painting. 

Meanwhile,  through  vast  illuminated  halls, 
Silent  and  bright,  where  nothing  but  the  falls 
Of  fragrant  waters,  gushing  with  cool  sound 
From  many  a  jasper  fount,  is  heard  around, 
Young  Azim  roams  bewildered,— nor  can  guess 
What  means  this  maze  of  light  and  loneliness. 
Here,  the  way  leads,  o'er  tessellated  floors 
Or  mats  of  Cairo,  through  long  corridors, 
Where,  ranged  in  cassolets  and  silver  urns, 
Sweet  wood  of  alve  or  of  sandal  burns; 
And  spicy  rods,  such  as  illume  at  night 
The  bowers  of  Tibet,  send  forth  odorous  light, 
Like  Peris'  wands,  when  pointing  out  the  road 
For  some  pure  Spirit  to  its  blest  abode: — 
And  here,  at  once,  the  glittering  saloon 
Bursts  on  his  sight,  boundless  and  bright  as  noon; 
Where,  in  the  midst,  reflecting  back  the  rays 
In  broken  rainbows,  a  fresh  fountain  plays 


Lord  Francis  Jeffrey,  Edinburgh  Review,  Nov.,  1817. 


MOORE.  123 


High  as  th'  enamelled  cupola,  which  towers 
All  rich  with  Arabesques  of  gold  and  flowers: 
And  the  mosaic  floor  beneath  shines  through 
The  sprinkling  of  that  fountain's  silvery  dew, 
Like  the  wet,  glistening  shells,  of  every  dye, 
That  on  the  margin  of  the  Red  Sea  lie. 

Here,  too,  he  traces  the  kind  visitings 
Of  woman's  love  in  .those  fair,  living  things 
Of  land  and  wave,  whose  fate — in  bondage  thrown 
For  their  weak  loveliness — is  like  her  own ! 
On  one  side  gleaming  with  a  sudden  grace 
Through  water,  brilliant  as  the  crystal  vase 
In  which  it  undulates,  small  fishes  shine, 
Like  golden  ingots  from  a  fairy  mine ; — 
While,  on  the  other,  latticed  lightly  in 
With  odoriferous  woods  of  Comorin, 
Each  brilliant  bird  that  wings  the  air  is  seen ; — 
Gay,  sparkling  loories,  such  as  gleam  between 
The  crimson  blossoms  of  the  coral  tree 
In  the  warm  isles  of  India's  sunny  sea ; 
Mecca's  blue  sacred  pigeon,  and  the  thrush 
Of  Hindostan,  whose  holy  warblings  gush, 
At  evening,  from  the  tall  pagoda's  top ; — 
Those  golden  birds  that,  in  the  spice-time,  drop 
About  the  gardens,  drunk  with  that  sweet  food 
Whose  scent  has  lured  them  o'er  the  summer  flood; 
And  those  that  under  Araby's  soft  sun 
Build  their  high  nests  of  budding  cinnamon; 
In  short,  all  rare  and  beauteous  things,  that  fly 
Through  the  pure  element,  here  calmly  lie 
Sleeping  in  light,  like  the  green  birds  that  dwell 
In  Eden's  radiant  fields  of  asphodel! 

As  a  specimen  of  patriotic  ardor,  this  passage  from  The  Fire- 
Worshipers  is  offered. 

O  for  a  tongue  to  curse  the  slave, 

Whose  treason,  like  a  deadly  blight, 
Comes  o'er  the  councils  of  the  brave, 

And  blasts  them  in  their  hour  of  might ! 
May  life's  unblessed  cup  for  him 
Be  drugged  with  treacheries  to  the  brim, — 
With  hopes,  that  but  allure  to  fly, 

With  joys,  that  vanish  while  he  sips, 
Like  Dead-Sea  fruits,  that  tempt  the  eye, 

But  turn  to  ashes  on  the  lips! 


124  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

His  country's  curse,  his  children's  shame, 
Outcast  of  virtue,  peace,  and  fame, 
May  he,  at  last,  with  lips  of  flame 
On  the  parched  desert  thirsting  die, — 
While  lakes,  that  shone  in  mockery  nigh, 
Are  fading  off,  untouched,  untasted, 
Like  the  once  glorious  hopes  he  blasted! 
And,  when  from  earth  his  spirit  flies, 

Just  Prophet,  let  the  damned-one  dwell 
Full  in  the  sight  of  Paradise, 

Beholding  heaven  and  feeling  hell! 

This  last  extract,  from  Paradise  and  the  Peri,  exhibits  our 
poet's  ability  in  dealing  with  the  tender  and  diviner  emotions 
of  the  human  soul.  The  Peri  is  herein  spoken  of. 

Cheered  by  this  hope,  she  bends  her  thither  ;— 

Still  laughs  the  radiant  eye  of  Heaven, 

Nor  have  the  golden  bowers  of  Even 
In  the  rich  West  begun  to  wither; — 
When,  o'er  the  vale  of  Balbec  winging 

Slowly,  she  sees  a  child  at  play, 
Among  the  rosy  wild  flowers  singing, 

As  rosy  and  as  wild  as  they ; 
Chasing,  with  eager  hands  and  eyes, 
«  The  beautiful  blue  damsel-flies, 

That  fluttered  round  the  jasmine  stems, 
Like  winged  flowers  or  flying  gems; — 
And,  near  the  boy,  who,  tired  with  play, 
Now  nestling  mid  the  roses  lay, 
She  saw  a  wearied  man  dismount 

From  his  hot  steed,  and  on  the  brink 
Of  a  small  minaret's  rustic  fount 

Impatient  fling  him  down  to  drink. 
Then  swift  his  haggard  brow  he  turned 

To  the  fair  child,  who  fearless  sat, 
Though  never  yet  hath  daybeam  burned 

Upon  a  brow  more  fierce  than  that,— 
Sullenly  fierce — a  mixture  dire, 
Like  thunder-clouds,  of  gloom  and  fire ; 
In  which  the  Peri's  eye  could  read 
Dark  tales  of  many  a  ruthless  deed; 
The  ruined  maid — the  shrine  profaned — 
Oaths  broken— and  the  threshold  stained 
With  blood  of  guests  I— there  written,  all, 
Black  as  the  damning  drops  that  fall 


MOORE.  125 


From  the  denouncing  Angel's  pen, 
Ere  Mercy  weeps  them  out  again. 

Yet  tranquil  now  that  man  of  crime 
(As  if  the  balmy  evening  time 
Softened  his  spirit)  looked  and  lay, 
Watching  the  rosy  infant's  play: — 
Though  still,  whene'er  his  eye  by  chance 
Fell  on  the  boy's,  its  lurid  glance 

Met  that  unclouded,  joyous  gaze, 
As  torches,  that  have  burnt  all  night 
Through  some  impure  and  godless  rite, 

Encounter  morning's  glorious  rays. 

But,  hark!  the  vesper  call  to  prayer, 

As  slow  the  orb  of  daylight  sets, 
Is  rising  sweetly  on  the  air, 

From  Syria's  thousand  minarets! 
The  boy  has  started  from  the  bed 
Of  flowers,  where  he  had  laid  his  head, 
And  down  upon  the  fragrant  sod 

Kneels,  with  his  forehead  to  the  south, 
Lisping  th'  eternal  name  of  God 

From  Purity's  own  cherub  mouth, 
And  looking,  while  his  hands  and  eyes 
Are  lifted  to  the  glowing  skies, 
Like  a  stray  babe  of  Paradise, 
Just  lighted  on  that  flowery  plain, 
And  seeking  for  its  home  again. 
Oh!  'twas  a  sight — that  heaven — that  child — 
A  scene,  which  might  have  well  beguiled 
Even  haughty  Eblis  of  a  sigh 
For  glories  lost  and  peace  gone  by! 

And  how  felt  he,  the  wretched  Man 

Eeclining  there — while  memory  ran 

O'er  many  a  year  of  guilt  and  strife, 

Flew  o'er  the  dark  flood  of  his  life, 

Nor  found  one  sunny  resting-place, 

Nor  brought  him  back  one  branch  of  grace? 

"There  was  a  time,"  he  said,  in  mild, 
Heart-humbled  tones,  "thou  blessed  chilli 
When,  young,  and  haply  pure  as  thou, 
I  looked  and  prayed  like  thee— but  now — " 


126  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

He  hung  his  head — each  nobler  aim, 

And  hope,  and  feeling,  which  had  slept 
From  boyhood's  hour,  that  instant  came 

Fresh  o'er  him,  and  he  wept — he  wept! 
Blest  tears  of  soul-felt  penitence ! 

In  whose  benign,  redeeming  flow 
Is  felt  the  first,  the  only  sense 

Of  guiltless  joy  that  guilt  can  know. 

"  There 's  a  drop,"  said  the  Peri,  "  that  down  from  the 

moon 

Falls  through  the  withering  airs  of  June 
Upon  Egypt's  land,  of  so  healing  a  power, 
So  balmy  a  virtue,  that  ev'n  in  the  hour 
That  drop  descends,  contagion  dies, 
And  health  reanimates  earth  and  skies! — 
Oh,  is  it  not  thus,  thou  man  of  sin 

The  precious  tears  of  repentance  fall? 
Though  foul  thy  fiery  plagues  within, 

One  heavenly  drop  hath  dispelled  them  all!" 

And  now — behold  him  kneeling  there 

By  the  child's  side,  in  humble  prayer, 

While  the  same  sunbeam  shines  upon 

The  guilty  and  the  guiltless  one, 

And  hymns  of  joy  proclaim  through  Heaven 

The  triumph  of  a  Soul  Forgiven! 

'Twas  when  the  golden  orb  had  set, 
While  on  their  knees  they  lingered  yet, 
There  fell  a  light  more  lovely  far 
Than  ever  came  from  sun  or  star, 
Upon  the  tear  that,  warm  and  meek, 
Dewed  that  repentant  sinner's  cheek. 
To  mortal  eye  this  light  might  seem 
A  northern  flash  or  meteor  beam — 
But  well  th'  enraptured  Peri  knew 
'Twas  a  bright  smile  the  Angel  threw 
From  Heaven's  Gate,  to  hail  that  tear, 
Her  harbinger  of  glory  near ! 

"Joy,  joy  for  ever!  my  task  is  done — 
The  Gates  are  passed,  and  Heaven  is  won  f 
Oh!  am  I  not  happy?    I  am,  I  am — 

To  thee,  sweet  Eden!   how  dark  and  sad 
Are  the  diamond  turrets  of  Shadukiam, 

And  the  fragrant  bowers  of  Amberabad! 


MOORE.  127 


"Farewell,  ye  odors  of  earth,  that  die 
Passing  away  like  a  lover's  sigh; — 
My  feast  is  now  of  the  Tooba  Tree, 
Whose  scent  is  the  breath  of  eternity! 
Farewell,  ye  vanishing  flowers,  that  shone 

In  my  fairy  wreath,  so  bright  and  brief; 
O!  what  are  the  brightest  that  e'er  have  blown, 
To  the  lote-tree,  springing  by  Alla's  throne, 

Whose  flowers  have  a  soul  in  every  leaf! 
Joy,  joy  for  ever ! — my  task  is  done — 
The  gates  are  passed,  and  Heaven  is  won ! " 

In  1817  Moore  took  up  his  abode  at  Sloperton,  where,  excepting 
the  time  spent  in  European  and  American  travel,  a  residence  of 
two  or  three  years  in  France,  flying  visits  to  Ireland  and  Scotland, 
and  not  unfrequent  nor  brief  stays  at  London,  he  lived  during  the 
remainder  of  his  life,  in  easy  access  of  Lord  Lansclowne's  valuable 
library  and  aristocratic  society,  with  kind  friends  around  him,  his 
home  a  sort  of  wayside  bower,  where  the  great  folks  from  London 
found  it  convenient  to  stop  and  be  regaled  with  the  poet's  sweet 
songs  and  good  cheer. 

"What  Moore  was  in  London,  must  Horace  have  been  in  Rome 
— the  same  genial  boon  companion — the  same  sweet  lyric  poet — 
the  same  true  patriot— the  same  playful  satirist.  Take  which  phase 
of  Moore's  character  you  like,  you  will  find  the  corresponding  traits 
in  his  Roman  prototype:  the  very  subjects  which  inspired  their 
muse— the  very  accidents  of  their  life— have  a  curious  resemblance. 
Born  of  lowly  parentage,  each  raised  himself  to  a  position  of  hon- 
orable intimacy  with  the  highest  of  the  land;  and  each  looked 
back  with  mindful  love  to  the  old  home  and  the  fond  parents.  .  .  . 
Each  poet  had  the  same  love  for  the  country,  but  each  loved  dearly, 
in  the  height  of  the  season,  when  the  grandees  poured  in  from 
Baiae  or  from  Bath,  to  leave  the  Sabine  farm  or  the  Wiltshire  cot- 
tage, and  mingle  among  the  crowds  that  thronged  the  mother  city 
of  their  nation.  If  Horace  drew  around  him  an  admiring  circle 
to  hear  him  recite  his  latest  ode,  Moore,  too,  could  always  attract 
the  guests  at  Lady  Donegal's,  or  Lord  Moira's,  to  hearken  to  his 
last  new  melody.  .  .  .  Horace,  no  less  than  Moore, 

'ran 
Through  each  mode  of  the  lyre,  and  was  master  of  all ; ' 

and,  like  Moore,  charmed  his  readers  equally  by  the  tender  beauty 
of  his  love  songs,  the  fire  of  his  patriotic  odes,  and  the  sparkling 
grace  that  adorns  his  epistles  and  his  satires."* 

*  Westminster  Review,  July,  1853. 


128  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

He  died  February  25, 1852. 

"To  conclude,  Thomas  Moore  has  been  styled  the  national  poet 
of  Ireland ;  and  so  he  is,  in  the  same  sense  Tasso  is  of  the  Vene- 
tians, or  Beranger  of  the  French,  or  Burns  of  Scotland ;  for  he  has 
patriotically  consecrated  his  finest  powers  to  the  exposition  and 
illustration  of  Ireland's  peculiar  feelings  and  associations,  local, 
personal,  and  traditionary.  Hence  he  is  beloved  by  his  country- 
men, and  deserves  to  be  so,  beyond  all  Ireland's  other  poets. 

"  The  poetry  of  Moore — abstracting  the  artificial  glare  and  glitter, 
which  are  its  drawbacks — is  of  an  elevated  and  ethereal  kind,  full 
of  harmony,  and  spirit,  and  splendor :  of  the  heroic  romantic  vir- 
tues of  man,  and  the  clinging,  confiding  tenderness  of  woman ;  of 
the  beauty  of  the  inferior  creatures,  and  the  magnificence  of  na- 
ture. .  .  .  His  muse  is  like  one  of  his  own  Eastern  Peris,  full  of  life, 
light,  and  beauty — a  froward  and  restless  cherub,  too  animated  to 
be  ever  listless,  and  too  full  of  buoyant  gaiety  to  bestow  aught  but 
a  transient  te^r,  a  passing  sigh,  on  the  misfortunes,  or  crimes,  or 
follies,  of  mankind — whose  delight  is  in  the  witcheries  of  art  and 
nature;  whose  flight  is  above  the  damping  materialities  of  the 
grosser  elements— whose  thoughts  are  a  concatenation  of  thick- 
blown  fancies,  whose  syllables  are  music."  * 

*D.  M.  Moir's  Sketches  of  the  Poetical  Literature  of  the  Past  Half  Century. 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH  was  born  at  Cockermouth  in  Cumber- 
land, April  7,  1770. 

Fair  seed-time  had  my  soul,  and  I  grew  up 
Fostered  alike  by  beauty  and  by  fear : 
Much  favored  in  my  birthplace,  and  no  less 
In  that  beloved  vale*  to  which  erelong 
We  were  transplanted, — there  were  we  let  loose 
For  sports  of  wider  range.     Ere  T  had  told 
Ten  birthdays,  when  among  the  mountain  slopes 
Frost,  and  the  breath  of  frosty  wind,  had  snapped 
The  last  autumnal  crocus,  'twas  my  joy, 
With  store  of  springes  o'er  my  shoulder  hung, 
To  range  the  open  heights  where  woodcocks  run 
Along  the  smooth  green  turf,  f 

"  He  was  from  the  first  in  tolerably  easy  circumstances,  and 
had  a  small  fortune.  Happily  married,  amidst  the  favors  of 
government  and  the  respect  of  the  public,  he  lived  peacefully 
on  the  margin  of  a  beautiful  lake,  in  sight  of  noble  mountains, 
in  the  pleasant  retirement  of  an  elegant  house  (Rydal  Mount), 
amidst  the  admiration  and  attentions  of  distinguished  and 
chosen  friends,  engrossed  by  contemplations  which  no  storm 
came  to  distract,  and  by  poetry,  which  was  produced  without 
any  hindrance. 

"  In  this  deep  calm  he  listens  to  his  own  thoughts ;  the  peace 
was  so  great,  within  him  and  around  him,  that  he  could  perceive 
ftie  imperceptible.  He  saw  a  grandeur,  a  beauty,  lessons  in  the 
trivial  events  which  weave  the  woof  of  our  most  commonplace 
days.  He  needed  not,  for  the  sake  of  emotion,  either  splendid 
sights  or  unusual  actions.  The  dazzling  glare  of  the  lamps,  the 
pomp  of  the  theatre,  would  have  shocked  him ;  his  eyes  are  too 
delicate,  accustomed  to  sweet  and  uniform  tints."  J 

*  Vale  of  Esthwaite.       f  Prelude,  Book  I.       J  Taine's  English  Literature,  Vol.  II. 

I  129 


130  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

He  was  appointed  successor  to  Southey,  as  poet-laureate,  in 
1843.  This  distinction  he  accepted  as  a  tribute  of  respect  to 
his  poetical  name  and  genius,  and  not  as  an  office  imposing  on 
him  the  production  of  government  panegyrics.  He  died  April 
23,  1850,  at  the  ripo  age  of  eighty  years. 

A  FAREWELL. 

Farewell,  thou  little  nook  of  mountain-ground, 
Thou  rocky  corner  in  the  lowest  stair 
Of  that  magnificent  temple  which  doth  bound 
One  side  of  our  whole  vale  with  grandeur  rare; 
Sweet  garden-orchard,  eminently  fair, 
The  loveliest  spot  that  man  hath  ever  found, 
Farewell! — we  leave  thee  to  Heaven's  peaceful  care, 
Thee,  and  the  Cottage  which  thou  dost  surround. 

Our  boat  is  safely  anchored  by  the  shore, 
And  there  will  safely  ride  when  we  are  gone ; 
The  flowering  shrubs  that  deck  our  humble  door 
Will  prosper,  though  unattended  and  alone : 
Fields,  goods,  and  far-off  chattels  we  have  none : 
These  narrow  bounds  contain  our  private  store 
Of  things  earth  makes,  and  sun  doth  shine  upon ; 
Here  are  they  in  our  sight, — we  have  no  more. 

Sunshine  and  shower  be  with  you,  bud  and  bell ! 
For  two  months  now  in  vain  we  shall  be  sought; 
We  leave  you  here  in  solitude  to  dwell 
With  these  our  latest  gifts  of  tender  thought; 
Thou,  like  the  morning,  in  thy  saffron  coat, 
Bright  gowan,  and  marsh-marigold,  farewell ! 
Whom  from  the  borders  of  the  Lake  we  brought, 
And  placed  together  near  our  rocky  Well. 

We  go  for  One  to  whom  ye  will  be  dear; 
And  she  will  prize  this  Bower,  this  Indian  shed, 
Our  own  contrivance,  Building  without  peer ! 
— A  gentle  Maid,  whose  heart  is  lowly  bred, 
Whose  pleasures  are  in  wild  fields  gathered, 
With  joyousness,  and  with  a  thoughtful  cheer, 
Will  come  to  you ;  to  you  herself  will  wed ; 
And  love  the  blessed  life  that  we  lead  here. 

Dear  Spot!  which  we  have  watched  with  tender  heed, 
Bringing  thee  chosen  plants  and  blossoms  blown 
Among  the  distant  mountains,  flower  and  weed, 


WORDSWORTH.  131 


Which  thou  hast  taken  to  thee  as  thy  own, 
Making  all  kindness  registered  and  known ; 
Thou  for  our  sakes,  though  Nature's  child  indeed, 
Fair  in  thyself  and  beautiful  alone, 
Hast  taken  gifts  which  thou  dost  little  need. 

And  O  most  constant,  yet  most  fickle  Place, 
That  hast  thy  wayward  moods,  as  thou  dost  show 
To  them  who  look  not  daily  on  thy  face ; 
Who,  being  loved,  in  love  no  bounds  dost  know, 
And  sayst,  when  we  forsake  thee,  "Let  them  go!" 
Thou  easy-hearted  Thing,  with  thy  wild  race 
Of  weeds  and  flowers,  till  we  return  be  slow, 
And  travel  with  the  year  at  a  soft  pace. 

Help  us  to  tell  Her  tales  of  years  gone  by, 

And  this  sweet  spring,  the  best  beloved  and  best; 

Joy  will  be  flown  in  its  mortality; 

Something  must  stay  to  tell  us  of  the  rest. 

Here,  thronged  with  primroses,  the  steep  rock's  breast 

Glittered  at  evening  like  a  starry  sky ; 

And  in  this  bush  our  sparrow  built  her  nest, 

Of  which  I  sang  one  song  that  will  not  die. 

O  happy  Garden !  whose  seclusion  deep 
Hath  been  so  friendly  to  industrious  hours ; 
And  to  soft  slumbers,  that  did  gently  steep 
Our  spirits,  carrying  with  them  dreams  of  flowers, 
And  wild  notes  warbled  among  leafy  bowers; 
Two  burning  months  let  summer  overleap, 
And,  coming  back  with  Her  who  will  be  ours, 
Into  thy  bosom  we  again  shall  creep.* 

LINES, 

%  Composed  a  few  miles  above  Tintern  Abbey,  011  revisiting  the  banks  of  the  Wye 
during  a  tour,  July  13, 1798. 

Five  years  have  past;  five  summers,  with  the  length 

Of  five  long  winters!  and  again  I  hear 

These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain-springs 

With  a  soft  inland  murmur. — Once  again 

Do  I  behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs, 

That  on  a  wild,  secluded  scene  impress 

Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion,  and  connect 

The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 

The  day  is  come  when  I  again  repose 

*  Poems  Founded  on  the  Affections. 


32  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 
These  plots  of  cottage-ground,  these  orchard-tufts, 
Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits, 
Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 
'Mid  groves  and  copses.    Once  again  I  see 
These  hedge-rows,  hardly  hedge-rows,  little  lines 
Of  sportive  wood  run  wild:  these  pastoral  farms, 
Green  to  the  very  door;  and  wreaths  of  smoke 
Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees ! 
With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem 
Of  vagrant  dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods, 
Or  of  some  Hermit's  cave,  where  by  his  fire 
The  Hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  forms, 

Through  a  long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye : 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them, 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind, 
With  tranquil  restoration; — feelings  too 
Of  unremembered  pleasure :  such,  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.    Nor  less,  I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift, 
Of  aspect  more  sublime;  that  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  burden  of  the  mystery, 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world, 
Is  lightened: — that  serene  and  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, — 
Until,  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame, 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul: 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 

Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh !   how  oft — 
In  darkness  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world, 


WORDSWORTH.  133 


Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart — 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee, 

0  sylvan  Wye!  thou  wanderer  through  the  woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee ! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished  thought, 

With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint, 

And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity, 

The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again: 

While  here  I  stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 

Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 

That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 

For  future  years.    And  so  I  dare  to  hope, 

Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I  was  when  first 

1  came  among  these  hills;  when  like  a  roe 
I  bounded  o'er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams, 
Wherever  nature  led:   more  like  a  man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.    For  nature  then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days 

And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by; 
To  me  was  all  in  all. — I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.    The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion:  the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colors  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite;  a  feeling  and  a  love, 
That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm 
By  thoughts  supplied,  nor  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye. — That  time  is  past, 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.    Not  for  this 
Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur ;  other  gifts 
Have  followed ;  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 
Abundant  recompense.    For  I  have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth ;  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 
Nor  harsh  rior  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.    And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
12 


134  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man : 
A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.    Therefore  am  I  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 
And  mountains;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye  and  ear, — both  what  they  half  create, 
And  what  perceive ;  well  pleased  to  recognize 
In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  muse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance, 

If  I  wrere  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay ; 
For  thou  art  with  me  here  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river ;   thou  my  dearest  Friend, 
My  dear,  dear  Friend ;  and  in  thy  voice  I  catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.    O  yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once, 
My  dear,  dear  Sister !  and  this  prayer  I  make, 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her;  'tis  her  privilege, 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy :  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.    Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk ; 
And  let  the  misty  mountain-winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee:  and,  in  after  years, 
When  these  wild  ecstasies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a  sober  pleasure ;  when  the  mind 
Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms, 
Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling-place 
For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies;  O,  then, 
If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief, 


WORDSWORTH.  135 


Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 

Of  tender  joy  wilt  thoti  remember  me, 

And  these  my  exhortations !     Nor,  perchance, — 

If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 

Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these  gleams 

Of  past  existence, — wilt  thou  then  forget 

That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 

We  stood  together;  and  that  I,  so  long 

A  worshiper  of  Nature,  hither  came 

Unwearied  in  that  service ;  rather  say 

With  warmer  love, — oh !   with  far  deeper  zeal 

Of  holier  love.    Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget, 

That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 

Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 

And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 

More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake! 

TO  A  HIGHLAND   GIRL. 
(At  Inversneyde,  upon  Loch  Lomond.) 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower 

Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower! 

Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 

Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head: 

And  these  gray  rocks;  that  household  lawn 

Those  trees,  a  veil  just  half  withdrawn ; 

This  fall  of  water  that  doth  make 

A  murmur  near  the  silent  lake ; 

This  little  bay;  a  quiet  road 

That  holds  in  shelter  thy  Abode, — 

In  truth  together  do  ye  seem 

Like  something  fashioned  in  a  dream; 

Such  forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 

When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep! 

But,  O  fair  Creature!  in  the  light 

Of  common  day,  so  heavenly  bright, 

I  bless  thee,  Vision  as  thou  art, 

I  bless  thee  with  a  human  heart; 

God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years! 

Thee  neither  know  I,  nor  thy  peers; 

And  -yet  my  eyes  are  filled  with  tears. 

With  earnest  feeling  I  shall  pray 
For  thee  when  I  am  far  away: 
For  never  saw  I  mien,  or  face, 
In  which  more  plainly  I  could  trace 


136  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Benignity  and  homebred  sense 
Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 
Here  scattered,  like  a  random  seed, 
Remote  from  men,  thou  dost  not  need 
The  embarrassed  look  of  shy  distress, 
And  maidenly  shamefacedness : 
Thou  wear'st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  freedom  of  a  Mountaineer: 
A  face  with  gladness  overspread ! 
Soft  smiles,  by  human  kindness  bred! 
And  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays; 
With  no  restraint,  but  such  as  springs 
From  quick  and  eager  visitings 
Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach 
Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech : 
A  bondage  sweetly  brooked,  a  strife 
That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life! 
So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind, 
Seen  birds  of  tempest-loving  kind 
Thus  beating  up  against  the  wind. 
What  hand  but  would  a  garland  cull 
For  thee,  who  art  so  beautiful? 

0  happy  pleasure!   here  to  dwell 
Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell; 
Adopt  your  homely  ways,  and  dress, 
A  Shepherd,  thou  a  Shepherdess! 
But  I  could  frame  a  wish  for  thee 
More  like  a  grave  reality: 

Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a  wave 
Of  the  wild  sea ;  and  I  would  have 
Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  I  could, 
Though  but  of  common  neighborhood. 
What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see! 
Thy.  elder  brother  I  would  be, 
Thy  father, — anything  to  thee ! 

Now  thanks  to  Heaven!   that  of  its  grace 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place. 
Joy  have  I  had;  and  going  hence 

1  bear  away  my  recompense. 

In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 
Our  memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes: 
Then,  why  should  I  be  loth  to  stir  ? 
I  feel  this  place  was  made  for  her; 
To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past, 
Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 


WORDSWORTH.  137 


Nor  am  I  loth,  though  pleased  at  heart, 

Sweet  Highland  Girl!   from  thee  to  part; 

For  I,  methinks,  till  I  grow  old, 

As  fair  before  me  shall  behold, 

As  I  do  now,  the  cabin  small, 

The  lake,  the  bay,  the  waterfall ; 

And  thee,  the  Spirit  of  them  all !  * 

SONNET. 

Advance,  come  forth  from  thy  Tyrolean  ground, 
Dear  Liberty !  stern  Nymph  of  soul  untamed ; 
Sweet  Nymph,  O  rightly  of  the  mountains  named! 
Through  the  long  chain  of  Alps  from  mound  to  mound 
And  o  'er  the  eternal  snows,  like  Echo,  bound ; 
Like  Echo,  when  the  hunter  train  at  dawn 
Have  roused  her  from  her  sleep:  and  forest-lawn, 
Cliffs,  woods;  and  caves,  her  viewless  steps  unsound, 
And  babble  of  her  pastime! — On,  dread  power! 
With  such  invisible  motion  speed  thy  flight, 
Through  hanging  clouds,  from  craggy  height  to  height, 
Through  the  green  vales  and  through  the  herdsman's  bower, 
That  all  the  Alps  may  gladden  in  thy  might, 
Here,  there,  and  in  all  places  at  one  hour. 

"Wordsworth's  great  work,  The  Excursion,  appeared  in  1814. 
This  is  a  fragment  of  a  projected  great  moral  epic,  discussing  and 
solving  the  mightiest  questions  concerning  God,  nature,  and  man, 
our  moral  constitution,  our  duties,  and  our  hopes.  Its  dramatic 
interest  is  exceedingly  small ;  its  structure  is  very  inartificial ;  and 
the  characters  represented  in  it  are  devoid  of  life  and  probability. 
That  a*n  old  Scottish  peddler,  a  country  clergyman,  and  a  disap- 
pointed visionary,  should  reason  so  continuously  and  so  sublimely 
on  the  destinies  of  man,  is  in  itself  a  gross  want  of  verisimilitude ; 
and  the  purely  speculative  nature  of  their  interminable  arguments, 

'  On  knowledge,  will,  and  fate,' 

are  not  relieved  from  their  monotony  even  by  the  abundant  and  beau- 
tiful descriptions  and  the  pathetic  episodes  so  thickly  interspersed. 
.  .  .  But,  on  the  other  hand,  so  sublime  are  the  subjects  on  which 
they  reason,  so  lofty  and  seraphic  is  their  tone,  and  so  deep  a  glow 
of  humanity  is  perceptible  throughout,  that  no  reader,  but  such  as 
seek  in  poetry  for  mere  food  for  the  curiosity  and  imagination,  can 
study  this  grand  composition  without  ever-increasing  reverence 
and  delight."  f  From  this  poem  we  make  the  following  extract. 
The  "  Sage  "  speaks : 

*  Memorials  of  a  Tour  in  Scotland,  1803.  f  Shaw's  Outlines  of  English  Literature. 

12* 


138  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE, 

I  have  seen 

A  curious  child,  who  dwelt  upon  a  tract 
Of  inland  ground,  applying  to  his  ear 
The  convolutions  of  a  smooth-lipped  shell ; 
To  which,  in  silence  hushed,  his  very  soul 
Listened  intensely ;  and  his  countenance  soon 
Brightened  with  joy ;  for  from  within  were  heard 
Murmurings,  whereby  the  monitor  expressed 
Mysterious  union  with  its  native  sea. 
Even  such  a  shell  the  universe  itself 
Is  to  the  ear  of  Faith;  and  there  are  times, 
I  doubt  not,  when  to  you  it  doth  impart 
Authentic  tidings  of  invisible  things; 
Of  ebb  and  flow,  and  ever-during  power ; 
And  central  peace,  subsisting  at  the  heart 
Of  endless  agitation.    Here  you  stand, 
Adore,  and  worship,  when  you  know  it  not ; 
Pious  beyond  the  intention  of  your  thought; 
Devout  above  the  meaning  of  your  will. 

— Yes,  you  have  felt,  and  may  not  cease  to  feel. 

The  estate  of  man  would  be  indeed  forlorn, 

If  false  conclusions  of  the  reasoning  power 

Made  the  eye  blind,  and  closed  the  passages 

Through  which  the  ear  converses  with  the  heart. 

Has  not  the  soul,  the  being  of  your  life, 

Received  a  shock  of  awful  consciousness, 

In  some  calm  season,  when  these  lofty  rocks 

At  night's  approach  bring  down  the  unclouded  sky, 

To  rest  upon  their  circumambient  walls ; 

A  temple  framing  of  dimensions  vast, 

And  yet  not  too  enormous  for  the  sound 

Of  human  anthems, — choral  song,  or  burst 

Sublime  of  instrumental  harmony, 

To  glorify  the  eternal !  what  if  these 

Did  never  break  the  stillness  that  prevails 

Here, — if  the  solemn  nightingale  be  mute, 

And  the  soft  woodlark  here  did  never  chant 

Her  vespers, — Nature  fails  not  to  provide 

Impulse  and  utterance.    The  whispering  air 

Sends  inspiration  from  the  shadowy  heights, 

And  blind  recesses  of  the  caverned  rocks ; 

The  little  rills,  and  waters  numberless, 

Inaudible  by  daylight,  blend  their  notes 

With  the  loud  streams :  and  often,  at  the  hour 

When  issue  forth  the  lirst  pale  stars,  is  heard, 


WORDSWORTH.  139 


Within  the  circuit  of  this  fabric  huge, 

One  voice, — the  solitary  raven,  flying 

Athwart  the  concave  of  the  dark  blue  dome, 

Unseen,  perchance,  above  all  power  of  sight, — 

An  iron  knell!   with  echoes  from  afar 

Faint, — and  still  fainter, — as  the  cry,  with  which 

The  wanderer  accompanies  her  flight 

Through  the  calm  region,  fades  upon  the  ear, 

Diminishing  by  distance  till  it  seemed 

To  expire;  yet  from  the  abyss  is  caught  again, 

And  yet  again  recovered! 

But  descending 

From  these  imaginative  heights,  that  yield 
Far-stretching  views  into  eternity, 
Acknowledge  that  to  Nature's  humbler  power 
Your  cherished  sullenness  is  forced  to  bend 
Even  here,  where  her  amenities  are  sown 
With  sparing  hand.    Then  trust  yourself  abroad 
To  range  her  blooming  bowers,  and  spacious  fields, 
Where  on  the  labors  of  the  happy  throng 
She  smiles,  including  in  her  wide  embrace 
City,  and  town,  and  tower, — and  sea  with  ships 
Sprinkled ; — be  our  companion  while  we  track 
Her  rivers  populous  with  gliding  life ; 
While,  free  as  air,  o'er  printless  sands  we  march, 
Or  pierce  the  gloom  of  her  majestic  woods; 
Roaming,  or  resting  under  grateful  shade 
In  peace  and  meditative  cheerfulness; 
Where  living  things,  and  things  inanimate, 
Do  speak,  at  Heaven's  command,  to  eye  and  ear, 
And  speak  to  social  reason's  inner  sense, 
With  inarticulate  language. 

For  the  Man — 

Who,  in  this  spirit,  communes  with  the  Forms 
Of  Nature,  who  with  understanding  heart 
Both  knows  and  loves  such  objects  as  excite 
No  morbid  passions,  no  disquietude, 
No  vengeance,  and  no  hatred — needs  must  feel 
The  joy  of  that  pure  principle  of  love 
So  deeply,  that,  unsatisfied  with  aught 
Less  pure  and  exquisite,  he  cannot  choose 
But  seek  for  objects  of  a  kindred  love 
In  fellow-natures,  and  a  kindred  joy. 
Accordingly,  he  by  degrees  perceives 
His  feelings  of  aversion  softened  down ; 


HO  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

A  holy  tenderness  pervade  his  frame. 

His  sanity  of  reason  not  impaired, 

Say  rather,  all  his  thoughts  now  flowing  clear, 

From  a  clear  fountain  flowing,  he  looks  round 

And  seeks  for  good;  and  finds  the  good  he  seeks: 

Until  abhorrence  and  contempt  are  things 

He  only  knows  by  name ;  and,  if  he  hear, 

From  other  mouths,  the  language  which  they  speak, 

He  is  compassionate ;  and  has  no  thought, 

No  feeling,  which  can  overcome  his  love. 

And  further ;  by  contemplating  these  Forms 
In  the  relations  which  they  bear  to  man, 
He  shall  discern,  how,  through  the  'various  means 
Which  silently  they  yield,  are  multiplied 
The  spiritual  presences  of  absent  things. 
Trust  me,  that,  for  the  instructed,  time  will  come 
When  they  shall  meet  no  object  but  may  teach 
Some  acceptable  lesson  to  their  minds 
Of  human  suffering,  or  human  joy. 
So  shall  they  learn,  while  all  things  speak  of  man, 
Their  duties  from  all  forms ;  and  general  laws, 
And  local  accidents,  shall  tend  alike 
To  rouse,  to  urge ;  and,  with  the  will,  confer 
The  ability  to  spread  the  blessings  wide 
Of  true  philanthropy.    The  light  of  love 
Not  failing,  perseverance  from  their  steps 
.  Departing  not,  for  them  shall  be  confirmed 

The  glorious  habit  by  which  sense  is  made 
Subservient  still  to  moral  purposes, 
Auxiliary  to  divine.    That  change  shall  clothe 
The  naked  spirit,  ceasing  to  deplore 
The  burden  of  existence.    Science  then 
Shall  be  a  precious  visitant;  and  then, 
And  only  then,  be  worthy  of  her  name : 
For  then  her  heart  shall  kindle;  her  dull  eye, 
Dull  and  inanimate,  no  more  shall  hang 
Chained  to  its  object  in  brute  slavery ; 
But,  taught  with  patient  interest  to  watch 
The  processes  of  things,  and  serve  the  cause 
Of  order  and  distinctness,  not  for  this 
Shall  it  forget  that  its  most  noble  use, 
Its  most  illustrious  province,  must  be  found 
In  furnishing  clear  guidance,  a  support 
Not  treacherous,  to  the  mind's  excursive  power. 
— So  build  we  up  the  Being  that  we  are ; 


WORDSWORTH.  141 


Thus  deeply  drinking  in  the  soul  of  things, 
We  shall  be  wise  perforce ;  and,  while  inspired 
By  choice,  and  conscious  that  the  Will  is  free, 
Shall  move  unswerving,  even  as  if  impelled 
By  strict  necessity,  along  the  path 
Of  order  and  of  good.    Whate'er  we  see, 
Or  feel,  shall  tend  to  quicken  and  refine ; 
Shall  fix,  in  calmer  seats  of  moral  strength, 
Earthly  desires ;  and  raise,  to  loftier  heights 
Of  divine  love,  our  intellectual  soul. 

An  eminent  contemporary,*  a  most  intimate  friend  and  an 
ardent  admirer  of  our  poet,  has  catalogued  his  peculiarities  in  the 
following  compact  and  vigorous  passage  : 

"  First.  An  austere  purity  of  language,  both  grammatically  and 
logically ;  in  short,  a  perfect  appropriateness  of  the  words  to  the 
meaning.  Secondly.  A  correspondent  weight  and  sanity  of  the 
thoughts  and  sentiments,  won,  not  from  books,  but  from  the  poet's 
own  meditations.  They  are  fresh,  and  have  the  dew  upon  them. 
Thirdly.  The  sinewy  strength  and  originality  of  single  lines  and 
paragraphs ;  the  frequent  curiosa  felicitas  of  his  diction.  Fourthly. 
The  perfect  truth  of  nature  in  his  images  and  descriptions,  as  taken 
immediately  from  nature,  and  proving  a  long  and  genial  intimacy 
with  the  very  spirit  which  gives  a  physiognomic  expression  to  all 
the  works  of  nature.  Fifthly.  A  meditative  pathos,  a  union  of 
deep  and  subtle  thought  with  sensibility;  a  sympathy  with  man 
as  man, — the  sympathy,  indeed,  of  a  contemplator  rather  than  a 
fellow-sufferer  and  co-mate,  but  of  a  contemplator  from  whose 
view  no  difference  of  rank  conceals  the  sameness  of  the  nature ; 
no  injuries  of  wind  or  weather  or  toil,  or  even  of  ignorance,  wholly 
disguise  the  human  face  divine.  Last,  and  preeminently,  I  chal- 
lenge for  this  poet  the  gift  of  imagination,  in  the  highest  and 
strictest  sense  of  the  word.  In  the  play  of  fancy,  Wordsworth,  to 
my  feelings,  is  always  graceful,  and  sometimes  recondite.  But  in 
imaginative  power  he  stands  nearest  of  all  modern  writers  to 
Shakespeare  and  Milton,  and  yet  in  a  mind  perfectly  unborrowed 
and  his  own.  To  employ  his  own  words,  he  does  indeed  to  all 
thoughts  and  to  all  objects 

'Add  the  gleam, 

The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration,  and  the  poet's  dream.' " 

All  this  is  true  of  a  large  part  of,  perhaps  the  greater  part 

*  S.  T.  Coleridge,  in  Biographia  Literaria. 


142  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

of,  Wordsworth's  poetry;   the  rest  has  been   quite  as  truthfully 
characterized,  we  think,  by  a  more  recent  and  very  able  critic.* 

"Half  of  his  pieces  are  childish,  almost  foolish  (see  Peter  Bell  ; 
The  White  Doe;  The  Kitten  and  Falling  Leaves,  etc.) ;  dull  events  de- 
scribed in  a  dull  style,  one  nullity  after  another,  and  that  on  prin- 
ciple. All  the  poets  in  the  world  would  not  reconcile  us  to  such 
tedium.  Certainly  a  cat  playing  with  three  dry  leaves  may  furnish 
a  philosophical  reflection,  and  figure  forth  a  wise  man  sporting  with 
the  fallen  leaves  of  life;  but  eighty  lines  on  such  a  subject  make  us 
yawn — much  worse,  smile.  At  this  rate  you  will  find  a  lesson  in  an 
old  tooth-brush,  which  still  continues  in  use.  Doubtless,  also,  the 
ways  of  Providence  are  unfathomable,  and  a  selfish  and  brutal 
workman  like  Peter  Bell  may  be  converted  by  the  beautiful  con- 
duct of  an  ass  full  of  virtue  and  unselfishness  ;  but  this  sentimental 
prettiness  quickly  grows  insipid,  and  the  style,  by  its  intentional 
ingenuousness,  renders  it  still  more  insipid.  .  .  .  You  must  consider 
your  emotions  very  precious,  that  you  put  them  all  under  glass. 
There  are  only  three  or  four  events  in  each  of  our  lives  worthy  of 
being  related;  our  powerful  sensations  deserve  to  be  exhibited,  be- 
cause they  recapitulate  our  whole  existence ;  but  not  the  little  effects 
of  the  little  agitations  which  pass  through  us,  and  the  imperceptible 
oscillations  of  our  everyday  condition. 

"  The  specialty  of  the  artist  is  to  cast  great  ideas  in  moulds  as 
great  as  they;  Wordsworth's  moulds  are  of  bad  common  clay, 
notched,  unable  to  hold  the  noble  metal  which  they  ought  to  con- 
tain. But  the  metal  is  genuinely  noble ;  and  besides  several  very 
beautiful  sonnets,  there  is  now  and  then  a  work,  amongst  others 
The  Excursion,  in  which  we  forget  the  poverty  of  the  scenery  to  ad- 
mire the  purity  and  elevation  of  the  thought." 


*  Tame  in  his  English  Literature,  Vol.  II. 


THOMAS    HOOD. 


THOMAS  HOOD  was  born  in  London,  May  23,  1798.  His  edu- 
cation was  meager;  and  at  an  early  age  he  was  apprenticed  to 
his  uncle,  an  engraver.  This  employment,  though  damaging  to 
his  health  and  obnoxious  to  his  tastes,  proved  in  the  end  a  great 
advantage,  enabling  him  to  illustrate  his  comicalities  with  cuts 
correspondingly  amusing. 

His  debut  as  a  litterateur  was  made  while  he  was  recuperating 
for  a  couple  of  years  tn  Dundee.  A  first  appearance  in  type 
was  followed  by  a  number  of  contributions  to  the  "  Dundee 
Magazine ;  "  and  these  experiments,  added  to  others  of  a  like 
sort,  subsequently  made  in  London,  eventuated  in  his  becoming 
"  a  sort  of  sub-editor  "  of  the  "  London  Magazine,"  in  1821.  A 
few  years  later,  Hood  published  his  first  book — Odes  and  Ad- 
dresses to  Great  People,  which  was  written  conjointly  with  his 
brother-in-law.  His  contributions  to  the  magazine  were  col- 
lected and  published  in  1826,  under  the  title  of  Whims  and 
Oddities.  In  the  same  year  appeared  the  Pica  of  the  Midsum- 
mer Fairies,  "in  which  the  author's  exquisitely  delicate  fancy 
runs  riot  in  very  prodigality  of  wit."  From  this  poem  we  ex- 
tract the  Shade's  defence  of  the  Fairies. 

'T  is  these  that  free  the  small  entangled  fly, 
Caught  in  the  venomed  spider's  crafty  snare; — 
These  be  the  petty  surgeons  that  apply 
The  healing  balsams  to  the  wounded  hare, 
Bedded  in  bloody  fern,  no  creature's  care! — 
These  be  providers  for  the  orphan  brood, 
Whose  tender  mother  hath  been  slain  in  air, 
Quitting  with  gaping  bill  her  darlings'  food, 
Hard  by  the  verge  of  her  domestic  wood. 

'Tis  these  befriend  the  timid,  trembling  stag, 
When,  with  a  bursting  heart  beset  with  fears, 
He  feels  his  saving  speed  begin  to  flag; 
For  then  they  quench  the  fatal  taint  with  tears, 

143 


144  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


And  prompt  fresh  shifts  in  his  alarmed  ears, 
So  piteously  they  view  all  bloody  morts; 
Or  if  the  gunner,  with  his  arm,  appears, 
Like  noisy  pyes  and  jays,  with  harsh  reports, 
They  warn  the  wild  fowl  of  his  deadly  sports. 

For  these  are  kindly  ministers  of  nature, 

To  soothe  all  covert  hurts  and  dumb  distress; 

Pretty  they  be,  and  very  small  of  stature,— 

For  mercy  still  consorts  with  littleness; — 

Wherefore  the  sum  of  good  is  still  the  less, 

And  mischief  grossest  in  this  world  of  wrong; — 

So  do  these  charitable  dwarfs  redress 

The  tenfold  ravages  of  giants  strong, 

To  whom  great  malice  and  great  might  belong. 

Likewise  to  them  are  poets  much  beholden 
For  secret  favors  in  the  midnight  glooms; 
Brave  Spenser  quaffed  out  of  their  goblets  golden, 
And  saw  their  tables  spread  of  prompt  mushrooms, 
And  heard  their  horns  of  honeysuckle  blooms 
Sounding  upon  the  air  most  soothing  soft, 
Like  humming  bees  busy  about  the  brooms, — 
And  glanced  this  fair  queen's  witchery  full  oft, 
And  in  her  magic  wain  soared  far  aloft. 

Nay,  I  myself,  though  mortal,  once  was  nursed 

By  fairy  gossips,  friendly  at  my  birth, 

And  in  my  childish  ear  glib  Mab  rehearsed 

Her  breezy  travels  round  our  planet's  girth, 

Telling  me  wonders  of  the  moon  and  earth; 

My  gramarye  at  her  grave  lap  I  conned, 

Where  Puck  had  been  convened  to  make  me  mirth ; 

I  have  had  from  Queen  Titania  tokens  fond, 

And  toyed  with  Oberon's  permitted  wand. 

With  figs  and  plums  and  Persian  dates  they  fed  me, 
And  delicate  cates  after  my  sunset  meal, 
And  took  me  by  my  childish  hand,  and  led  me 
By  craggy  rocks  crested  with  keeps  of  steel, 
Whose  awful  bases  deep,  dark  woods  conceal, 
Staining  some  dead  lake  with  their  verdant  dyes: 
And  when  the  West  sparkled  at  Phoebus'  wheel, 
With  fairy  euphrasy  they  purged  mine  eyes, 
To  let  me  see  their  cities  in  the  skies. 


HOOD.  145 


'T  was  they  first  schooled  my  young  imagination 

To  take  its  nights  like  any  new-fledged  bird, 

And  showed  the  span  of  winged  meditation 

Stretched  wider  than  things  grossly  seen  or  heard. 

With  sweet,  swift  Ariel  how  I  soared  and  stirred 

The  fragrant  blooms  of  spiritual  bowers ! 

'T  was  they  endeared  what  I  have  still  preferred, 

Nature's  blest  attributes  and  balmy  powers, 

Her  hills,  and  vales,  and  brooks,  sweet  birds  and  flowers ! 

Wherefore  with  all  true  loyalty  and  duty 

Will  I  regard  them  in  my  honoring  rhyme, 

With  love  for  love,  and  homages  to  beauty, 

And  magic  thoughts  gathered  in  night's  cool  clime, 

With  studious  verse  trancing  the  dragon  Time, 

Strong  as  old  Merlin's  necromantic  spells ; 

So  these  dear  monarchs  of  the  summer's  prime 

Shall  live  unstartled  by  his  dreadful  yells, 

T^ll  shrill  larks  warn  them  to  their  flowery  cells. 

The  National  Tales  appeared  in  1827.  Two  years  later,  Hood 
commenced  the  publication  of  the  "  Comic  Annual,"  which  he 
carried  forward  with  increasing  success  until  1834,  when,  by  the 
failure  of  a  firm,  he  became  bankrupt.  His  proud  and  honorable 
nature,  however,  refused  to  have  recourse  to  the  bankruptcy  court, 
and  with  a  determination  to  liquidate  his  debts  by  literary  toil,  he 
went  to  the  Continent.  Here,  through  much  ill-health,  Hood 
worked  on  indefatigably. 

"  The  public  at  home,  that  laughed  over  the  quaint  quips  and 
cuts  which  the  never-failing  'Comic'  brought  them,  little  thought 
with  what  pain  and  difficulty  its  mirth-inspiring  pages  were  written. 
Yet,  day  by  day,  and  often  far  into  the  night,  the  scratch  of  the 
pen  was  heard  in  his  little  room,  and  when,  as  often  happened, 
the  writer  was  so  exhausted  as  to  be  unable  to  hold  it,  propped  up 
by  pillows,  he  still  dictated  to  his  wife  the  never-failing  series  of 
joke  and  pun."* 

Hood  returned  home  in  1840.  The  next  year,  on  the  death  of 
Theodore  Hook,  he  was  appointed  editor  of  the  "  New  Monthly 
Magazine,"  the  periodical  in  which,  a  short  time  before,  he  had 
published  his  famous  poem,  Miss  Kilmansegg  and  her  Precious  Leg. 
"  In  the  Christmas  number  of  '  Punch  '  for  1843  appeared  the  Song 
of  the  Shirt.  For  the  first  time  Hood  really  caught  the  ear  of  the 
world  as  a  singer.  The  song  went  straight  to  the  heart  of  the 

*  Weslmineter  Review,  April,  1871. 
13  K 


146  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


nation— it  was  copied  into  every  paper,  the  verses  were  on  every 
tongue,  and  little  boys  sang  it  on  the  streets."  *    We  present  it. 

THE   SONG   OF   THE   SHIRT. 
With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 
With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 
Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 

Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt ! " 

"Work!  work!  work! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 
And  work — work — work, 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 
It's  O!  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  workl 

"Work — work — work 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim! 
Work— work — work 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  I 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream! 

"O,  men,  with  sisters  dear! 

0,  men,  with  mothers  and  wives ! 
It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives ! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt. 

"But  why  do  I  talk  of  death? 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone, 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 
It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep; 


*  Westminster  Review,  April,  1871. 


HOOD.   •  147 


O,  God !   that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 
And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap ! 

"Work!   work!  work! 

My  labor  never  flags ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?    A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread — and  rags. 
The  shattered  roof — and  this  naked  floor — 

A  table — a  broken  chair — . 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there! 

"  Work — work — work  ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime, 
Work — work — work, 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 
Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  benumbed 

As  well  as  the  wreary  hand. 

"  Work — work — work, 

In  the  dull  December  light, 
And  work — work — work, 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright — 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

"O!  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet, 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal! 

"O!  but  for  one  short  hour! 

A  respite  however  brief! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart, 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread !  " 


148  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 

Stitch!   stitch!   stitch! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, — 

Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich! — 
She  sang  this  "  Song  of  the  Shirt ! " 

Hood's  engagement  with  the  "New  Monthly  Magazine"  was  ter- 
minated in  1843,  in  order  that  he  might  carry  into  effect  a  long- 
cherished  plan  of  starting  a  magazine  of  his  own.  This  was  accom- 
plished in  January  of  the  following  year  by  the  appearance  of 
" Hood's  Magazine."  But  alas!  the  realization  came  too  late  to 
afford  the  anticipated  satisfaction.  Though  the  magazine  became 
unprecedented!}7  popular,  great  financial  difficulties  were  met  with 
in  carrying  it  through  the  earlier  numbers ;  and,  worst  of  all,  Hood's 
health,  always  feeble  and  for  several  years  past  very  precarious, 
utterly  failed  him  this  year. 

"  Yet,  in  the  midst  of  all  his  troubles  and  illness — like  a  nightin- 
gale singing  in  the  stormy  dark — he  composed  many  of  his  best 
songs;  the  Haunted  House,  the  Lady's  Dream,  The  Laborer's  Lay, 
and  The  Bridge  of  Sighs,  having  appeared  in  rapid  succession.  .  .  . 
In  the  February  number  of  his  Magazine  appeared  the  last  verses 
Hood  ever  wrote — verses  worthy  of  a  dying  poet:  "* 

Farewell,  life!  my  senses  swim, 
And  the  world  is  growing  dim; 
Thronging  shadows  cloud  the  light, 
Like  the  advent  of  the  night — 
Colder,  colder,  colder  still, 
Upward  steals  a  vapor  chill; 
Strong  the  earthy  odor  grows — 
I  smell  the  mould  above  the  rose! 

Welcome,  life!  the  spirit  strives! 
Strength  returns  and  hope  revives; 
Cloudy  fears  and  shapes  forlorn 
Fly  like  shadows  at  the  morn, — 
O'er  the  earth  there  comes  a  bloom; 
Sunny  light  for  sullen  gloom, 
Warm  perfume  for  vapor  cold— 
I  smell  the  rose  above  the  mould! 

*  Westminster  Review,  April,  1871. 


HOOD.  149 


Hood  died  on  May  3,  1845. 

As  a  sample  of  Hood's  felicity  in  humorous  prose  composition, 
we  present 

THE   DISCOVERY. 

"It's  a  nasty  evening,"  said  Mr.  Dornton,  the  stock-broker,  as  he  settled 
himself  in  the  last  inside  place  of  the  last  Fulham  coach,  driven  by  our  old 
friend  Mat— an  especial  friend  in  need,  be  it  remembered,  to  the  fair  sex. 

"  I  would  n't  be  outside,"  said  Mr.  Jones,  another  stock-broker,  "  for  a 
trifle." 

"  Nor  I,  as  a  speculation  in  options,"  said  Mr.  Parsons,  another  frequenter 
of  the  Alley. 

"  I  wonder  what  Mat  is  waiting  for,"  said  Mr.  Tidwell,  "  for  we  are  full, 
inside  and  ouW 

Mr.  Tidwell's  doubt  was  soon  solved, — the  coach-door  opened,  and  Mat 
somewhat  ostentatiously  inquired,  what  indeed  he  very  well  knew — "I  be- 
lieve every  place  is  took  up  inside?" 

"We're  all  here,"  answered  Mr.  Jones,  on  behalf  of  the  usual  comple- 
ment of  old  stagers, 

"  I  told  you  so,  ma'am,"  said  Mat,  to  a  female  who  stood  beside  him,  but 
still  leaving  the  door  open  to  an  invitation  from  within.  However,  nobody 
spoke — on  the  contrary,  I  felt  Mr.  Hindmarsh,  my  next  neighbor,  dilating 
himself  like  the  frog  in  the  fable. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do,"  excLtimed  the  woman ;  "  I  've  nowhere 
to  go  to,  and  it 's  raining  cats  and  dogs !" 

"You'd  better  not  hang  about,  anyhow,"  said  Mat,  "  for  you  may  ketch 
your  death, — and  I'm  the  last  coach, — ain't  I,  Mr.  Jones?" 

"  To  be  sure  you  are,"  said  Mr.  Jones,  rather  impatiently ;  "  shut  the 
door." 

"  I  told  the  lady  the  gentlemen  could  n't  make  room  for  her,"  answered 
Mat,  in  a  tone  of  apology, — "  I'm  very  sorry,  my  dear"  (turning  towards 
the  female),  "you  should  have  my  seat,  if  you  could  hold  the  ribbons — 
but  such  a  pretty  one  as  you  ought  to  have  a  coach  of  her  own." 
He  began  slowly  closing  the  door. 

"Stop,  Mat,  stop!"  cried  Mr.  Dornton,  and  the  door  quickly  unclosed 
again;  "I  can't  give  up  my  place,  for  I'm  expected  home  to  dinner;  but 
if  the  lady  would  n't  object  to  sit  on  my  knees — " 

"Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  answered  Mat,  eagerly;  "you  won't  ob- 
ject, will  you,  ma'am,  for  once  in  the  way,  with  a  married  gentleman,  and 
a  wet  night,  and  the  last  coach  on  the  road?" 

"If  I  thought  I  shouldn't  uncommode,"  said  the  lady,  precipitately 
furling  her  wet  umbrella,  which  she  handed  into  one  gentleman,  whilst  she 
favored  another  with  her  muddy  pattens.  She  then  followed  herself,  Mat 
shutting  the  door  behind  her,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  help  her  in.  "  I  'm 
sure  I'm  obliged  for  the  favor,"  she  said,  looking  round;  "but  which  gen- 
tleman was  so  kind?" 

"  It  was  I  who  had  the  pleasure  of  proposing,  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dornton  : 
and  before  he  pronounced  the  last  word  she  was  in  his  lap,  with  the  assur- 
13* 


150  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

ance  that  she  would  sit  as  lightsome  as  she  could.  Both  parties  seemed 
very  well  pleased  with  the  agreement;  but  to  judge  according  to  the  rules 
of  Lavater,  the  rest  of  the  company  were  but  ill  at  ease.  For  my  own 
part,  I  candidly  confess  I  was  equally  out  of  humor  with  myself  and  the 
person  who  had  set  me  such  an  example  of  gallantry.  I,  who  had  read 
the  lays  of  the  Troubadours — the  awards  of  the  old  "Courts  of  Love" — 
the  lives  of  the  ''preux  Chevaliers" — the  history  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison 
— to  be  outdone  in  courtesy  to  the  sex  by  a  married  stock -broker !  How  I 
grudged  him  the  honor  she  conferred  upon  him — how  I  envied  his  feel- 
ings ! 

I  did  not  stand  alone,  I  suspect,  in  this  unjustifiable  jealousy ;  Messrs. 
Jones,  Hindmarsh,  Tidwell,  and  Parsons  seemed  equally  disinclined  to 
forgive  the  chivalrous  act  which  had,  as  true  knights,  lowered  all  our 
crests  and  blotted  our  scutcheons,  and  cut  off  our  spurs.  Many  an  unfair 
jibe  was  launched  at  the  champion  of  the  fair,  and  when  he  attempted  to 
enter  into  conversation  with  the  lady,  he  was  interrupted  by  incessant 
questions  of  "  What  is  stirring  in  the  Alley  ?  " — "  What  is  doing  in  Dutch  ?" 
— "  How  are  the  Kentes  ?  " 

To  all  these  questions  Mr.  Dornton  incontinently  returned  business-like 
answers  according  to  the  last  Stock  Exchange  quotations;  and  he  was  in 
the  middle  of  an  elaborate  enumeration,  that  so-and-so  was  very  firm,  and 
so-and-so  very  low,  and  this  rather  brisk,  and  that  getting  up,  and  opera- 
tions, and  fluctuations,  and  so  forth,  when  somebody  inquired  about  Spanish 
Bonds. 

"  They  are  looking  up,  my  dear,"  answered  Mr.  Dornton,  somewhat  ab- 
stractedly ;  and  before  the  other  stock-brokers  had  done  tittering  the  stage 
stopped.  A  bell  was  rung,  and  whilst  Mat  stood  beside  the  open  coach- 
door,  a  staid  female  in  a  calash  and  clogs,  with  a  lantern  in  her  hand,  came 
clattering  pompously  down  a  front  garden. 

"Is  Susan  Pegge  come?"  inquired  a  shrill  voice. 

"Yes,  I  be,"  replied  the  lady  who  had  been  dry-nursed  from  town; — 
"are  you,  rna'am,  number  ten,  Grove  Place?" 

"  This  is  Mr.  Dornton's,"  said  the  dignified  woman  in  the  hood,  advanc- 
ing her  lantern, — "  and— mercy  on  us !  you  're  in  master's  lap !  " 

A  shout  of  laughter  from  five  of  the  inside  passengers  corroborated  the 
assertion,  and  like  a  literal  cat  out  of  the  bag,  the  ci-devant  lady,  forget- 
ting her  umbrella  and  her  pattens,  bolted  out  of  the  coach,  and  with  feline 
celerity  rushed  up  the  garden,  and  down  the  area,  of  number  ten. 

"Eenounce  the  woman!"  said  Mr.  Dornton,  as  he  scuttled  out  of  the 
stage.  "  Why  the  devil  didn't  she  tell  me  she  was  the  new  cook?" 

The  following  poems  must  serve  as  representatives  of  a  class  that 
constitutes  the  bulk  of  Hood's  writings. 

THE  DUEL:  A  SERIOUS  BALLAD. 

In  Brentford  town,  of  old  renown, 

There  lived  a  Mister  Bray, 
Who  fell  in  love  with  Lucy  Bell, 

And  so  did  Mr.  Clay. 


HOOD.  151 


To  see  her  ride  from  Hammersmith, 

By  all  it  was  allowed, 
Such  fair  outsides  are  seldom  seen, 

Such  angels  on  a  "Cloud." 

Said  Mr.  Bray  to  Mr.  Clay, 

You  choose  to  rival  me, 
And  court  Miss  Bell,  but  there  your  court 

No  thoroughfare  shall  be. 

Unless  you  now  give  up  your  suit, 

You  may  repent  your  love; 
I  who  have  shot  a  pigeon  match, 

Can.  shoot  a  turtle  dove. 

So  pray  before  you  woo  her  more, 

Consider  what  you  do; 
If  you  pop  aught  to  Lucy  Bell, — 

I  '11  pop  it  into  you. 

Said  Mr.  Clay  to  Mr.  Bray, 

Your  threate  I  quite  explode; 
One  who  has  been  a  volunteer, 

Knows  how  to  prime  and  load. 

And  so  I  say  to  you  unless 

Your  passion  quiet  keeps, 
I  who  have  shot  and  hit  bulls'  eyes, 

May  chance  fco  hit  a  sheep's. 

Now  gold  is  oft  for  silver  changed, 

And  that  for  copper  red; 
But  these  two  went  away  to  give 

Each  other  change  for  lend. 

But  first  they  sought  a  friend  a-piece, 

This  pleasant  thought  to  give — 
When  they  were  dead,  they  thus  should  have 

Two  seconds  still  to  live. 

To  measure  out  the  ground  not  long 

The  seconds  then  forebore, 
And  having  taken  one  rash  step 

They  took  a  dozen  more. 

They  next  prepared  each  pistol-pan 

Against  the  deadly  strife, 
By  putting  in  the  prime  of  death 

Against  the  prime  of  life. 


152  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Now  all  was  ready  for  the  foes, 
But  when  they  took  their  stands, 

£ear  made  them  tremble  so  they  found 
They  both  were  shaking  hands. 

Said  Mr.  C.  to  Mr.  B., 

Here  one  of  us  may  fall, 
And  like  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  now, 

Be  doom'd  to  have  a  ball. 

I  do  confess  I  did  attach 

Misconduct  to  your  name; 
If  I  withdraw  the  charge,  will  then 

Your  ramrod  do  the  same? 

Said  Mr.  B.,  I  do  agree- 
But  think  of  Honor's  Courts! 

If  we  go  off  without  a  shot, 
There  will  be  strange  reports. 

But  look,  the  morning  now  is  bright. 

Though  cloudy  it  begun; 
Why  can't  we  aim  above,  as  if 

We  had  call'd  out  the  sun? 

So  up  into  the  harmless  air, 
Their  bullets  they  did  send; 

And  may  all  other  duels  have 
That  upshot  in  the  end. 

A  SERENADE. 

"Lullaby,  O  lullaby!" 
Thus  I  heard  a  father  cry ; 

"Lullaby,  O  lullaby! 
The  brat  will  never  shut  an  eye; 
Hither  come,  some  power  divine! 
Close  his  lids,  or  open  mine ! " 

"Lullaby,  O  lullaby! 
What  the  devil  makes  him  cry? 
4  Lullaby,  O  lullaby ! 
Still  he  stares— I  wonder  why- 
Why  are  not  the  sons  of  earth 
Blind,  like  puppies,  from  the  birth  ?* 

"Lullaby,  O  lullaby!" 
Thus  I  heard  the  father  cry; 

"Lullaby,  O  lullaby! 
Mary,  you  must  come  and  try! — 


HOOD.  153 


Hush,  O  hush,  for  mercy's  sake — 

The  more  I  sing,  the  more  you  wake!" 

"Lullaby,  O  lullaby! 
Fie,  you  little  creature,  fie ! 

Lullaby,  0  lullaby! 
Is  no  poppy-syrup  nigh? 
Give  him  some,  or  give  him  all, 
I  am  nodding  to  his  fall ! " 

"  Lullaby,  O  lullaby  ! 
Two  such  nights  and  I  shall  die! 

Lullaby,  O  lullaby ! 
He'll  be  bruised,  and  so  shall  I, — 
How  can  I  from  bed-posts  keep, 
When  I'm  walking  in  my  sleep!" 

11  Lullaby,  O  lullaby  ! 
Sleep  his  very  looks  deny — 

Lullaby,  0  lullaby! 
Nature  soon  will  stupefy — 
My  nerves  relax, — my  eyes  grow  dim — 
Who's  that  fallen — me  or  him?" 

"  Thomas  Hood  was  the  prince  of  wits.  His  nature  was  so  steeped 
in  the  choicest  spirit  of  humor  that  it  continually  bubbled  over  in 
quip  and  jest,  like  a  cool  spring  welling  up  in  desert  places.  He 
was  the  magician  of  words,  ruling  language  with  a  despotic  sway, 
and  by  a  wave  of  his  wand  compelling  it  to  perform  the  strangest 
transformations.  His  style  is  as  simple  and  earnest  as  possible. 
The  words  are  mostly  common  Saxon  words  with  which  every  one 
is  familiar,  but  they  are  chosen  with  exquisite  taste.  Hood  spoke 
like  a  child — artlessly,  naturally,  yet  with  that  wisdom  and  wit,  and 
'  tears  and  laughter  for  all  times ! ' 

"The  popularity  of  his  humorous  writings  is  very  wonderful,  if 
we  bear  in  mind  the  evanescent  character  of  wit,  and  especially 
that  form  of  wit  which  we  call  '  punning.'  Other  comic  books  grow 
stale;  time  robs  them  of  their  flavor,  and  steals  their  charms,  but 
Hood's  Own  is  as  fresh  to-day  as  when  it  first  appeared.  The  secret 
lies  in  this.  Through  all  Hood's  comicalities  there  is  an  under- 
current of  truth,  of  fresh  child-like  humor,  and,  paradoxical  as  it 
may  appear,  an  intense  spirit  of  sad  earnestness.  This  man,  who 
was  wont  to  tickle  the  world  into  laughter,  was  yet  not  always  merry 
himself.  His  tears  were  as  often  tears  of  pain  as  of  joy,  and  he  put 
on  a  sunny  face  at  times  to  hide  from  his  friends  the  agony  which 
too  frequently  gnawed  within. 


154:  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

"With  all  his  modesty,  too,  Hood  was  conscious — as  no  great 
man  can  help  being  conscious — of  his  great  powers,  and  their 
partial  though  necessary  misapplication.  He  felt  that  he  was 
meant  to  be  something  better  than  an  inspired  jester,  and  because 
the  world  refused  him  leisure  to  indulge  his  aspirations  his  soul 
fretted  silently.  .  .  Hood's  fame  as  a  wit  has  hurt  his  reputation  as 
a  poet.  His  mind  was  steeped  in  the  spirit  of  Elizabethan  litera- 
ture. In  his  verse  we  catch  once  more  the  echo  of  a  by -gone  age ; 
the  fresh,  quaint  flavor  of  times  when  thought  was  simple ;  the 
strong,  clear,  trickling  language  of  a  people  who  spoke  their  mind. 
His  verse  is  clear  and  ringing  as  a  bell;  it  falls  on  the  ear  like 
pleasant  music,  not  a  note  is  out  of  tune. 

"Hood  was  not  one  of  those  men  of  commanding  intellect  who 
arise  but  once  or  twice  at  most  in  a  nation's  history.  Rather  is  he 
enshrined  amid  the  Lares  and  Penates  of  our  hearts — our  house- 
hold favorites,  our  Charles  Lambs  and  Sir  Philip  Sidneys ;  a  kind, 
genial,  honest-hearted  man  of  genius,  whom  we  feel  it  is  good  to 
know  and  pleasant  to  remember;  whose  laugh  has  a  hearty  ring 
wherewith  to  blow  away  the  cob-webs  of  sorrow  and  care,  and  the 
shake  of  whose  hand  does  one's  heart  good.  There  have  been 
greater  writers  in  our  nation's  history;  and  a  few  more  as  great, 
but  there  has  been  no  one  whose  noble  efforts  in  behalf  of  the 
poor,  the  outcast,  and  the  sinning,  will  serve  to  embalm  his  mem- 
ory and  his  works  in  a  kindlier  affection  and  regard  than  Thomas 
Hood,  'the  darling  of  the  English  heart.'  "* 


*  Westminster  Review,  April,  1871. 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY  was  born  at  Bedminster,  near  Bristol,  on 
the  12th  of  August,  1774.  At  fourteen  he  entered  Westminster, 
and  four  years  after  gained  admittance  to  Baliol  College,  Ox- 
ford. On  leaving  college,  three  well-known  and  influential 
characters  met  him  at  the  door;  one,  in  flowing  vestments,  and 
with  aspect  and  speech  supernal,  invited  him  to  sacerdotal 
orders  and  honors;  another,  with  an  air  no  less  imposing,  but 
with  a  clamorous  arid  worldly  tongue,  pressed  him  to  political 
strife  and  preferment;  while  the  third,  with  fawn-like  sim- 
plicity, but  with  angelic  grace  and  sweetness,  beckoned  him  to 
more  private  pursuits.  He  left  Church  with  a  kiss  of  good- 
will, with  a  single  hand-shake  he  turned  from  State,  and  arm 
in  arm  went  with  the  Genius  of  Literature. 

Southey's  earliest  literary  efforts  were  put  forth  for  the  im- 
mediate purpose  of  obtaining  means  toward  aiding  the  accom- 
plishment of  Coleridge's  scheme  of  a  "  Pantisocracy  "  on  the 
banks  of  the  Susquehanna.  To  this  end  he  wrote  Joan  of  Arc, 
which  was  published  in  1795.  Madoc  was  commenced  at  Bath 
in  the  autumn  of  1794  and  finished  in  1799.  "  This  subject," 
(the  discovery  of  America  by  the  Welsh  prince  Madoc,)  says 
Southey,  "  I  had  fixed  upon  when  a  school-boy,  and  had  often 
conversed  upon  the  probabilities  of  the  story  with  the  school- 
fellow to  whom,  sixteen  years  afterwards,  I  had  the  satisfaction 
of  inscribing  the  poem." 

The  following  description  of  the  destruction  of  a  great  ser- 
pent is  from  Part  II.  of  Madoc. 

Far  in  the  hill, 

Cave  within  cave,  the  ample  grotto  pierced, 
Three  chambers  in  the  rock.  Fit  vestibule, 
The  first  to  that  wild  temple,  long  and  low, 
Shut  out  the  outward  day.  The  second  vault 
Had  its  own  daylight  from  a  central  chasm 
High  in  the  hollow;  here  the  Image  stood, 

155 


156  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Their  rude  idolatry, — a  sculptured  snake, 

If  term  of  art  may  such  misshapen  form 

Beseem, — around  a  human  figure  coil'd, 

And  all  begrimed  with  blood.    The  inmost  cell 

Dark ;  and  far  up  within  its  blackest  depth 

They  saw  the  Serpent's  still  small  eye  of  fire. 

Not  if  they  thinn'd  the  forest  for  their  pile, 

Could  they,  with  flame  or  suffocating  smoke, 

Destroy  him  there;  for  through  the  open  roof 

The  clouds  would  pass  away.    They  paused  not  long ; 

"  Drive  him  beneath  the  chasm,"  Cadwallon  cried, 

"  And  hem  him  in  with  fire,  and  from  above 

We  crush  him." 

Forth  they  went,  and  climb'd  the  hill 
With  all  their  people.    Their  united  strength 
Loosen'd  the  rocks,  and  ranged  them  round  the  brink, 
Impending.    With  Cadwallon  on  the  height 
Ten  Britons  wait;  ten  with  the  Prince  descend, 
And  with  a  firebrand  each  in  either  hand, 
Enter  the  outer  cave.    Madoc  advanced, 
And  at  the  entrance  of  the  inner  den, 
He  took  his  stand  alone.    A  bow  he  bore, 
And  arrows  round  whose  heads  dry  tow  was  twined, 
In  pine-gum  dipp'd,  he  kindled  these,  and  shot 
The  fiery  shafts.    Upon  the  scaly  skin, 
As  on  a  rock,  the  bone-tipp'd  arrows  fell, 
But  at  their  bright  and  blazing  light  efiray'd, 
Out  rush'd  the  reptile. 

Madoc  from  his  path 

Retired  against  the  side,  and  call'd  his  men, 
And  in  they  came,  and  circled  round  the  snake ; 
And  shaking  all  their  flames,  as  with  a  wheel 
Of  fire  they  ring'd  him  in.    From  side  to  side 
The  monster  turns ! — where'er  he  turns,  the  flame 
Flares  in  his  nostrils  and  his  blinking  eyes; 
Nor  aught  against  the  dreaded  element 
Did  that  brute  force  avail,  which  could  have  crush'd 
Milo's  young  limbs,  or  Theban  Hercules, 
Or  old  Manoah's  mightier  son,  ere  yet 
Shorn  of  his  strength.    They  press  him  now,  and  now 
Give  back,  here  urging,  and  here  yielding  way, 
Till  right  beneath  the  chasm  they  centre  him. 

At  once  the  crags  are  loosed,  and  down  they  fall 
Thundering.    They  fell  like  thunder,  but  the  crash 


SOU  THEY.  157 


Of  scale  and  bone  was  heard.    In  agony 

The  Serpent  writhed  beneath  the  blow;  in  vain, 

From  under  the  incumbent  load  essay'd 

To  drag  his  mangled  folds.    One  heavier  stone 

Fasten'd  and  flatten'd  him;  yet  still,  with  tail 

Ten  cubits  %ong,  he  lash'd  the  air,  and  foined 

From  side  to  side,  and  raised  his  raging  head 

Above  the  height  of  man,  though  half  his  length 

Lay  mutilate.    Who  then  had  felt  the  force 

Of  that  wild  fury,  little  had  to  him 

Buckles  or  corselet  profited,  or  mail, 

Or  might  of  human  arm. 

The  Britons  shrunk 

Beyond  its  arc  of  motion;  but  the  Prince 
Took  a  long  spear,  and  springing  on  the  stone 
Which  fix'd  the  monster  down,  provoked  his  rage. 
Uplifts  the  Snake  his  head  retorted,  high 
He  lifts  it  over  Madoc,  then  darts  down 
To  seize  his  prey.    The  Prince,  with  foot  advanced, 
Inclines  his  body  back,  and  points  the  spear 
With  sure  and  certain  aim,  then  drives  it  up, 
Into  his  open  jaws;  two  cubits  deep 
It  pierced,  the  monster  forcing  on  the  wound. 
He  closed  his  teeth  for  anguish,  and  bit  short 
The  ashen  hilt.    But  not  the  rage  which  now 
Clangs  all  his  scales,  can  from  its  seat  dislodge 
The  barbed  shaft;  nor  those  contortions  wild, 
Nor  those  convulsive  shudderings,  nor  the  throes 
Which  shake  his  inmost  entrails,  as  with  the  air 
In  suffocating  gulps  the  monster  now 
Inhales  his  own  life-blood. 

The  Prince  descends ; 

He  lifts  another  lance ;  and  now  the  Snake, 
Gasping,  as  if  exhausted,  on  the  ground 
Reclines  his  head  one  moment.    Madoc  seized 
That  moment,  planted  in  his  eye  the  spear, 
Then  setting  foot  upon  his  neck,  drove  down 
Through  bone,  and  brain,  and  throat,  and  to  the  earth 
Infixed  the  mortal  weapon.    Yet  once  more 
The  Snake  essay'd  to  rise;  his  dying  strength 
Fail'd  him,  nor  longer  did  those  mighty  folds 
Obey  the  moving  impulse,  crush'd  and  scotch'd ; 
In  every  ring,  through  all  his  mangled  length, 
The  shrinking  muscles  quiver'd,  then  collapsed 
In  death. 
14 


158  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

"In  those  days,"  says  our  poet,  "I  was  an  early  riser:  the  time 
so  gained  was  usually  employed  in  carrying  on  the  poem  which  I 
had  in  hand,  and  when  Charles  Danvers  came  down  to  breakfast 
on  the  morning  after  Madoc  was  completed,  I  had  the  first  hundred 
lines  of  Thalaba  to  show  him,  fresh  from  the  mint."  It  was  com- 
pleted and  published  in  1800.  From  Book  VI.  of  this  poem  we 
quote  what  may  be  styled : 

THALABA'S  ADMISSION   TO  PARADISE. 

This  was  a  wild  and  wondrous  scene, 
Strange  and  beautiful,  as  where 
By  Oton-tala,  like  a  sea  of  stars, 
The  hundred  sources  of  Hoangho  burst. 

High  mountains  closed  the  vale, 
Bare  rocky  mountains,  to  all  living  things 
Inhospitable;  on  whose  sides  no  herb 
Rooted,  no  insect  fed,  no  bird  awoke 
Their  echoes,  save  the  Eagle,  strong  of  wing, 
A  lonely  plunderer,  that  afar 
Sought  in  the  vales  his  prey. 

Thither  toward  those  mountains  Thalaba 
Following,  as  he  believed,  the  path  prescribed 

By  Destiny,  advanced. 

Up  a  wide  vale  that  led  into  their  depths, 
A  stony  vale  between  receding  heights 

Of  stone,  he  wound  his  way. 
A  cheerless  place !   the  solitary  Bee, 
Whose  buzzing  was  the  only  sound  of  life, 

Flew  there  on  restless  wing, 
Seeking  in  vain  one  flower,  whereon  to  fix. 

Still  Thalaba  holds  on ; 
The  winding  vale  now  narrows  on  his  view, 

And  steeper  of  ascent, 
Right  ward  and  leftward  rise  the  rocks; 
And  now  they  meet  across  the  vale. 
Was  it  the  toil  of  human  hands 
Had  hewn  a  passage  in  the  rock, 
Through  whose  rude  portal- way 
The  light  of  heaven  was  seen? 

Rude  and  low  the  portal-way; 
Beyond,  the  same  ascending  straits 

Went  winding  up  the  wilds. 


SOU  THEY.  159 


Still  a  bare,  silent,  solitary  glen, 
A  fearful  silence  and  a  solitude 

That  made  itself  be  felt; 
And  stepper  now  the  ascent, 
A  rugged  path,  that  tired 
The  straining  muscles,  toiling  slowly  up. 

At  length,  again  a  rock 
Stretch'd  o'er  the  narrow  vale ; 
There  also  had  a  portal-way  been  hewn, 
But  gates  of  massy  iron  barr'd  the  pass, 
Huge,  solid,  heavy -hinged. 

There  hung  a  horn  beside  the  gate, 
Ivory-tipp'd  and  brazen-mouth'd. 

He  took  the  ivory  tip, 
And  through  the  brazen  mouth  he  breathed; 

Like  a  long  thunder-peal, 
From  rock  to  rock  rebounding  rung  the  blast; 

The  gates  of  iron,  by  no  human  arm 
Unfolded,  turning  on  their  hinges  slow, 
Disclosed  the  passage  of  the  rock. 
He  enter'd,  and  the  iron  gates  fell  to, 
And  with  a  clap  like  thunder  closed  him  in. 

It  was  a  narrow,  winding  way ; 
Dim  lamps  suspended  from  the  vault, 
Lent  to  the  gloom  an  agitated  light. 
Winding  it  pierced  the  rock, 
A  long,  descending  path, 
By  gates  of  iron  closed; 
There  also  hung  a  horn  beside, 
Of  ivory  tip  and  brazen  mouth; 

Again  he  took  the  ivory  tip, 
And  gave  the  brazen  mouth  its  voice  again. 

Not  now  in  thunder  spake  the  horn, 
But  breathed  a  sweet  and  thrilling  melody. 
The  gates  flew  open,  and  a  flood  of  light 
Rush'd  on  his  dazzled  eyes. 

Was  it  to  earthly  Eden,  lost  so  long, 
The  fated  Youth  had  found  his  wondrous  wray? 
But  earthly  Eden  boasts 

No  t3rraced  palaces, 

No  rich  pavilions  bright  with  woven  gold, 
Like  these,  that,  in  the  vale, 
Rise  amid  odorous  groves. 
The  astonish'd  Thalaba, 


160  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Doubting  as  though  an  unsubstantial  dream 
Beguiled  him,  closed  his  eyes, 
And  open'd  them  again; 

And  yet  uncertified, 

He  press'd  them  close,  and,  as  he  look'd  around, 
Question'd  the  strange  reality  again. 

He  did  not  dream ; 
They  still  were  there — 
The  glittering  tents, 
The  odorous  groves, 
The  gorgeous  palaces.  .  .  . 

Where'er  his  eye  could  reach, 
Fair  structures,  rainbow-hued,  arose ; 
And  rich  pavilions,  through  the  opening  woods, 
Gleam'd  from  their  waving  curtains  sunny  gold; 
And,  winding  through  the  verdant  vale, 

Went  streams  of  liquid  light 
And  fluted  cypresses  rear'd  up 

Their  living  obelisks; 
And  broad-leav'd  lane-trees,  in  long  colonnades, 

O'er-arch'd  delightful  walks, 

Where  round  their  trunks  the  thousand  tendrilPd  vine 
Wound  up  and  hung  the  boughs  with  greener  wreaths, 

And  clusters  not  their  own. 
Wearied  with  endless  beauty,  did  his  eyes 
Return  for  rest?  beside  him  teems  the  earth 
With  tulips,  like  the  ruddy  evening  streak'd ; 
And  here  the  lily  hangs  her  head  of  snow; 

And  here,  amid  her  sable  cup, 
Shines  the  red  eye-spot,  like  one  brightest  star, 
The  solitary  twinkler  of  the  night; 
And  here  the  rose  expands 
Her  paradise  of  leaves. 

Then  on  his  ear  what  sounds 

Of  harmony  arose! 

Far  music  and  the  distance-mellow'd  song 
From  bowers  of  merriment; 

The  waterfall  remote; 
The  murmuring  of  the  leafy  groves ; 

The  single  nightingale 
Perch'd  in  the  rosier  by,  so  richly  toned, 
That  never  from  that  most  melodious  bird, 
Singing  a  love-song  to  his  brooding  mate, 
Did  Thraciari  shepherd  by  the  grave 


SOU  THEY.  161 


Of  Orpheus  hear  a  sweeter  melody, 
Though  tfcere  the  Spirit  of  the  Sepulchre 
All  his  own  power  infuse,  to  swell 
The  incense  that  he  loves.  .  .  . 

Full  of  the  bliss,  yet  still  awake 

To  wonder,  on  went  Thalaba ; 
On  every  side  the  song  of  mirth, 
The  music  of  festivity, 

Invite  the  passing  youth. 

Wearied  at  length  with  hunger  and  with  heat. 
He  enters  in  a  banquet  room, 
Where,  round  a  fountain  brink, 
On  silken  carpets  sate  the  festive  train. 
Instant  through  all  his  frame 
Delightful  coolness  spread ; 
The  playing  fount  refresh'd 

The  agitated  air; 

The  very  light  came  cool'd  through  silvering  panes 
Of  pearly  shell,  like  the  pale  moon-beam  tinged ; 
Or  where  the  wine-vase  fill'd  the  aperture, 

Rosy  as  rising  mom,  or  softer  gleam 
Of  saffron,  like  the  sunny  evening  mist : 
Through  every  hue,  and  streak'd  by  all, 
The  flowing  fountain  play'd. 

Around  the  water-edge 
Vessels  of  wine,  alternate  placed, 
Ruby  and  amber,  tinged  its  little  waves. 

From  golden  goblets  there 
The  guests  sate  quaffing  the  delicious  'juice 
Of  Shizaz'  golden  grape. 

In  1804,  Southey  removed  to  Greta  Hall,  near  Keswick,  in  Cum- 
berland, where,  excepting  occasional  visits  to  London,  several  ex- 
cursions to  various  parts  of  England  and  the  Continent,  he  passed 
the  remainder  of  his  life.  Roderick,  the  Last  of  the  Goths,  was  com- 
menced at  Keswick,  1809,  and  there  finished  in  1814. 

RODERICK  IN  BATTLE. 

The  Avenger  hastened  on 
In  search  of  Ebba ;  and  in  the  heat  of  fight 
Rejoicing,  and  forgetful  of  all  else, 
Set  up  his  cry,  as  he  was  wont  in  youth, 
"  Roderick  the  Goth ! " — his  war-cry  known  so  well.  .  .  . 
The  unreflecting  throng,  who  yesterday, 
14*  L 


162  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

If  it  had  passed  their  lips,  would  with  a  curse 
Have  clogged  it,  echoed  it  as  if  it  came 
From  some  celestial  voice  in  the  air,  revealed 
To  be  the  certain  pledge  of  all  their  hopes. 

"  Roderick  the  Goth  !     Roderick  and  Victory ! 

Roderick  and  Vengeance !  "     O'er  the  field  it  spread, 

All  hearts  and  tongues  uniting  in  the  cry; 

Mountains  and  rocks  and  vales  re-echoed  round ; 

And  he,  rejoicing  in  his  strength,  rode  on, 

Laying  on  the  Moors  with  that  good  sword,  and  smote 

And  overthrew,  and  scattered  and  destroyed, 

And  trampled  down ;  and  still  at  every  blow 

Exultingly  he  sent  the  war-cry  forth, 

"  Roderick  the  Goth  1    Roderick  and  Victory ! 

Roderick  and  Vengeance  !  " 

Thus  he  made  his  way, 

Smiting  and  slaying,  through  the  astonished  ranks, 
Till  he  beheld,  where  on  a  fiery  barb, 
Ebba,  performing  well  a  soldier's  part, 
Dealt  to  the  right  and  left  his  deadly  blows. 
With  mutual  rage  they  met.    The  renegade 
Displays  a  cimeter,  the  "splendid  gift 
Of  Walid,  from  Damascus  sent;  its  hilt 
Embossed  with  gems,  its  blade  of  perfect  steel, 
Which,  like  a  mirror  sparkling  to  the  sun 
With  dazzling  splendor,  flashed.    The  Goth  objects 
His  shield,  and  on  its  rim  received  the  edge 
Driven  from  its  aim  aside,  and  of  its  force 
Diminished.    Many  a  frustrate  stroke  was  dealt 
On  either  part,  and  many  a  foin  and  thrust 
Aimed  and  rebated ;  many  a  deadly  blow, 
Strait  or  reverse,  delivered  and  repelled. 

Roderick  at  length  with  better  speed  hath  reached 
The  Apostate's  turban ;  and,  through  all  its  folds, 
The  true  Cantabrian  weapon,  making  way, 
Attained  his  forehead.     "  Wretch ! "  the  avenger  cried, 
"It  comes  from  Roderick's  hand!    Roderick  the  Goth! 
Who  spared,  who  trusted  thee,  and  was  betrayed ! 
Go,  tell  thy  father  now  how  thou  hast  sped 
With  all  thy  treasons !  "     Saying  thus,  he  seized 
The  miserable,  who,  blinded  now  with  blood, 
Reeled  in  the  saddle ;  and,  with  sidelong  step 
Backing  Orelio,  drew  him  to  the  ground. 
He  shrieking,  as  beneath  the  horse's  feet 


SOUTHEY.  163 


He  fell,  forgot  his  late-learnt  creed,  and  called 
On  Mary's  name.    The  dreadful  Goth  passed  on, 
Still  plunging  through  the  thickest  war,  and  still 
Scattering,  where'er  he  turned,  the  affrighted  ranks. 

*  *  *  *  *  #  * 

The  evening  darkened,  but  the  avenging  sword 
Turned  not  away  its  edge  till  night  had  closed 
Upon  the  field  of  blood.    The  Chieftain  then 
Blew  the  recall,  and  from  their  perfect  work 
Returned  rejoicing,  all  but  he  for  whom 
All  looked  with  most  expectance.  .  .  . 

Upon  the  banks 

Of  Sella  was  Orelio  found,  his  legs 
And  flanks  incarnadined,  his  poitrel  smeared 
With  froth  and  foam  and  gore,  his  silver  mane 
Sprinkled  with  blood,  which  hung  on  every  hair, 
Aspersed  like  dewdrops;  trembling  there  he  stood 
From  the  toil  of  battle,  and  at  times  sent  forth 
His  tremulous  voice  far  echoing  loud  and  shrill, — 
A  frequent  anxious  cry,  with  which  he  seemed 
To  call  the  master  whom  he  loved  so  well, 
And  who  had  thus  again  forsaken  him. 
Siverian's  helm  and  cuirass  on  the  grass 
Lay  near ;  and  Julian's  sword,  its  hilt  and  chain 
Clotted  with  blood:  but  where  was  he  whose  hand 
Had  wielded  it  so  well  that  glorious  day? 

Days,  months,  and  years  and  generations  passed, 
And  centuries  held  their  course,  before,  far  off 
Within  a  hermitage  near  Viseu's  walls, 
A  humble  tomb  was  found,  which  bore  inscribed 
In  ancient  characters  King  Roderick's  name. 

"Of  all  Southey's  great  poems,  Roderick  is  assuredly  the  best,  and 
must  ever  keep  its  place  among  the  first-class  productions  of  the 
age.  It  was  the  achievement  of  his  matured  genius,  and  is,  through- 
out, more  consistent  and  sustained  than  Thalaba,  Madoc,  or  Kehama. 
Hence  it  is,  perhaps,  that  its  beauties  stand  less  prominently  for- 
ward from  the  general  text;  but  they  are  more  in  number,  and 
higher  in  excellence,  than  those  of  his  other  works. "* 

Without  attempting  to  pursue  further  the  story  of  Southey's 
numerous  literary  achievements,  let  it  suffice  to  note  that,  after 
about  twenty  years  of  laborious  probation,  he  was,  in  1813,  adjudged 
worthy  of  the  proud  appointment  of  Poet-laureate.  The  last  few 

*  D.  M.  Moir's  Poetical  Literature  of  past  Half-Century. 


164  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

years  of  his  life  were  saddened  by  a  gradual  decay  of  his  intellect; 
and  he  died,  March  21,  1843. 

"Southey  would  have  been  a  remarkable  man  in  whatever  he 
turned  his  attention  to,  let  it  have  been  law,  physic,  or  divinity, 
the  accountant's  desk  or  the  merchant's  wharf,  the  pen  or  the 
sword.  His  enterprise,  like  his  industry,  was  boundless  ;  his  self- 
appreciation  was  justly  high  ;  his  spirits  were  exuberantly  elastic, 
his  courage  indomitable.  To  himself  he  was  the  hardest  of  task- 
masters ;  and  he  was  not  contented,  like  Coleridge,  with  merely 
meditating  great  things,  but  uniformly  carried  them  through,  com- 
pelling himself  to  a  more  than  Egyptian  bondage — for  it  was  from 
year  to  year,  and  every  day,  and  all  day  long,  and  to  the  end  of  his 
life."  * 

"  Joan  of  Arc  is  an  English  and  French  story ;  Thalaba,  Arabian ; 
Kehama,  Indian ;  Madoc,  Welch  and  American ;  and  Roderick, 
Spanish  and  Moorish ;  nor  would  it  be  easy  to  say  (setting  aside 
the  first,  which  was  a  very  youthful  work)  in  which  of  these  noble 
poems  Southey  has  most  successfully  performed  an  achievement 
entirely  beyond  the  power  of  any  but  the  highest  genius.  In  Ma- 
doc,  and  especially  in  Roderick,  he  has  relied  on  the  truth  of  nature, 
as  it  is  seen  in  the  history  of  great  national  transactions  and  events. 
In  Thalaba  and  in  Kehama,  though  in  them,  too,  he  has  brought 
to  bear  an  almost  boundless  love,  he  follows  the  leading  of  Fancy 
and  Imagination,  and  walks  in  a  world  of  wonders.  Seldom,  if 
ever,  has  one  and  the  same  poet  exhibited  such  power  in  such  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  poetry — in  Truth  a  Master,  and  in  Fiction  a  Ma- 
gician. 

"  It  is  easy  to  assert  that  he  draws  on  his  vast  stores  of  knowledge 
gathered  from  books,  and  that  we  have  but  to  look  at  the  multi- 
farious accumulation  of  notes  appended  to  his  great  Poems  to  see 
that  they  are  not  inventions.  The  materials  of  poetry  indeed  are 
there — often  the  raw  materials— seldom  more ;  but  the  Imagination 
that  moulded  them  into  beautiful,  or  magnificent,  or  wondrous 
shapes,  is  all  his  own,  and  has  shown  itself  most  creative.  Southey 
never  was  among  the  Arabians  nor  Hindoos,  and  therefore  had  to 
trust  to  travelers.  But  had  he  not  been  a  poet  he  might  have  read 
till  he  was  blind,  nor  ever  seen 

'The  palm  grove  inlanded  amid  the  waste,' 
where  with  Oneiza  in  her  Father's  Tent 

'  How  happily  the  years  of  Thalaba  went  by ! ' 
*  D.  M.  Moir's  Poetical  Literature  of  past  Half-Century. 


SOU  THEY.  165 


In  what  guidance  but  that  of  his  own  genius  did  he  descend  with 
the  Destroyer  into  the  Domdaniel  Caves?  And  who  showed  him 
the  Swerga's  Bowers  of  Bliss  ?  Who  built  for  him  with  all  its  palaces 
that  submarine  City  of  the  Dead,  safe  in  its  far-down  silence  from 
the  superficial  thunder  of  the  sea? 

"  The  greatness  as  well  as  the  originality  of  Southey's  genius  is 
seen  in  the  conception  of  every  one  of  his  five  chief  works — with 
the  exception  of  Joan  of  Arc,  which  was  written  in  very  early  youth, 
and  is  chiefly  distinguished  by  a  fine  enthusiasm.  They  are  one 
and  all  National  Poems,  wonderfully  true  to  the  customs  and  char- 
acters of  the. inhabitants  of  the  countries  in  which  are  laid  the 
scenes  of  all  their  various  adventures  and  enterprises,  and  the  poet 
has  entirely  succeeded  in  investing  with  an  individual  interest  each 
representative  of  a  race."  * 

"The  sole  objection  to  Southey's  poems  is,  that  they  are  too  in- 
tensely objective — too  much  reflect  the  mind,  as  spreading  itself  out 
upon  external  things — too  little  exhibit  the  mind,  as  introverting 
itself  upon  its  own  thoughts  and  feelings."  f 

*  Recreations  of  Christopher  North.  f  De  Quincey's  Literary  Remains. 


FELICIA    DOROTHEA    REMANS. 


FELICIA  DOROTHEA  BROWNE  was  born  in  Liverpool,  Sept.  25, 
1794.  "She  was  distinguished,  almost  from  her  cradle,  by  ex- 
treme beauty  and  precocious  talents.  Before  she  had  attained 
the  age  of  seven,  her  father,  having  suffered  commercial  re- 
verses, broke  up  his  establishment  in  Liverpool,  and  removed 
with  his  family  into  Wales,  where,  for  the  next  nine  years,  they 
resided  at  Gwrych,  near  Abergele,  in  Denbighshire,  a  large  old 
mansion  close  to  the  sea,  and  shut  in  by  a  picturesque  range  of 
mountains. 

"  In  the  calm  seclusion  of  this  romantic  region,  with  ample 
range  through  the  treasures  of  an  extensive  library,  the  young 
poetess  passed  a  happy  childhood,  to  which  she  would  often 
fondly  revert  amidst  the  vicissitudes  of  her  after  life.  Here 
she  imbibed  that  intense  love  of  Nature  which  ever  afterwards 
1  haunted  her  like  a  passion,'  and  that  warm  attachment  for  the 
'  green  land  of  Wales ; '  its  affectionate,  true-hearted  people — 
their  traditions,  their  music,  and  all  their  interesting  character- 
istics, which  she  cherished  to  the  last  hour  of  her  existence."* 
Indeed,  by  far  the  greater  part  of  her  after  life  was  also  spent 
in  this  wild  and  romantic  country. 

This  happy  girlhood,  and  her  marriage  in  18]  2  with  Captain 
Hemans,  and  his  cruel  desertion  of  her  six  years  later,  leaving 
her  with  a  family  of  five  children  to  rear,  were  the  great  effi- 
cient influences  of  her  life ;  and  they  fully  account,  the  one  for 
the  fidelity  and  sympathy  that  pervade  her  descriptions  of  nat- 
ural scenery,  and  the  other  for  the  sorrow  chastened  by  Chris- 
tian faith  that  tones  her  pictures  of  human  life. 

When  only  fifteen,  "a  collection  of  her  poems,  which  had 
long  been  regarded  amongst  her  friends  with  a  degree  of  admi- 
ration, perhaps  more  partial  than  judicious,  was  submitted  to 

*  Memoir  of  Mrs.  Hemans  by  her  Sister. 

166 


HEMANS.  167 


the  world."  The  next  four  years  of  her  life  were  passed  in 
study :  a  knowledge  of  the  Spanish,  Portuguese,  French,  and 
Italian  languages  having  been  acquired,  and  a  decided  taste  for 
drawing  and  music,  and  aesthetical  studies  generally,  having 
been  developed.  In  1812  a  volume  of  poems,  entitled  The 
Domestic  Affections,  was  published. 

The  next  five  years  wrought  a  marked  change  in  the  character 
of  Mrs.  Hemans1  poetry.  It  had  become  "  correct,  classical,  and 
highly  polished  ;  but  it  wanted  warmth  :  it  partook  more  of  the 
nature  of  statuary  than  of  painting.  She  fettered  her  mind 
with  facts  and  authorities,  and  drew  upon  her  memory  when 
she  might  have  relied  upon  her  imagination."  Of  such  a  char- 
acter are  The  Restoration  of  the  Works  of  Art  to  Italy,  Modern 
Greece,  and  some  of  the  poems  in  the  volume  named  Tales  and 
Historic  Scenes,  all  of  which  appeared  within  these  years.  In 
"  Blackwood's  Magazine"  for  September,  1819,  was  published 
The  Meeting  of  Wallace  and  Bruce,  a  poem  which  secured  a 
public  prize  in  competition  with  a  great  number  of  others  on 
the  same  theme.  It  was  followed,  the  next  year,  by  The  Sceptic. 

The  classical  character  of  her  verse,  to  which  reference  has 
just  been  made,  continued  to  distinguish  her  subsequent  writ- 
ings, particularly  Dartmoor  (1821) — another  prize  poem,  Vespers 
of  Palermo,  Siege  of  Valencia,  and  the  Last  Constantine  (1823) 
— dramas.  "  The  study  of  modern  German  poetry,  and  of 
'Wordsworth,  changed,  while  it  expanded,  her  views,  and  The 
Forest  Sanctuary  (1826)  seems  to  have  been  composed  with  great 
elaboration,  doubtless,  while  in  their  transition  state."* 

In  the  same  year  with  the  last-named  poem  appeared  Lays 
of  Many  Lands.  "  She  has  transfused  into  her  German  or  Scan- 
dinavian legends  the  imaginative  and  daring  tone  of  the  orig- 
inals, without  the  mystical  exaggerations  of  the  one,  or  the 
painful  fierceness  and  coarseness  of  the  other — she  has  preserved 
the  clearness  and  elegance  of  the  French,  without  their  cold- 
ness or  affectation — and  the  tenderness  and  simplicity  of  the 
early  Italians,  without  their  diifuseness  or  languor. "f 

Mrs.  Hemans'  remaining  poems,  with  the  exception  of  her 
National  Lyrics  (1834),  proclaim  themselves  as  frank,  warm, 

*  Blackwood's  Magazine,  Dec.,  1848.          f  Francis  Jeffrey  in  Edinburgh  Review. 


168  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

and  spontaneous  utterances  of  personal  experience — the  experi- 
ence of  a  pure  and  sweet  soul  early  and  long  and  grievously 
saddened  yet  upbearing  with  Christian  fortitude.  The  poems 
of  this  character  were  Records  of  Woman  (1828),  Songs  of  the 
Affections  (1830),  Hymns  for  Childhood,  and  Scenes  and  Hymns 
of  Life  (1834).  The  last  five  years  of  her  life  were  passed  at 
Dublin,  where  she  died.  May  16,  1835. 

The  two   extracts   that  follow  are   taken  from  Sonys  of  the 
Affections. 

BERNARDO  DEL,   CARPIO. 

The  warrior  bow'd  his  crested  head,  and  tamed  his  heart  of  fire, 

And  sued  the  haughty  king  to  free  his  long-imprison'd  sire  : 

"  I  bring  thee  here  my  fortress  keys,  I  bring  my  captive  train, 

I  pledge  thee  faith,  my  liege,  my  lord ! — oh,  break  my  father's  chain ! " 

"  Rise,  rise !  even  now  thy  father  comes,  a  ransom'd  man  this  day : 
Mount  thy  good  horse,  and  thou  and  I  will  meet  him  on  his  way." 
Then  lightly  rose  that  loyal  son,  and  bounded  on  his  steed, 
And  urged,  as  if  with  lance  in  rest,  the  charger's  foamy  speed. 

And  lo !  from  far,  as  on  they  press'd,  there  came  a  glittering  band, 
With  one  that  midst  them  stately  rode,  as  a  leader  in  the  land ; 
"  Now  haste,  Bernardo,  haste !  for  there,  in  very  truth,  is  he, 
The  father  whom  thy  faithful  heart  hath  yearn'd  so  long  to  see." 

His  dark  eye  flash'd,  his  proud  breast  heaved,  his  cheek's  blood  came 

and  went ; 
He  reach'd  that  gray-hair'd  chieftain's  side,  and  there,  dismounting, 

bent; 

A  lowly  knee  to  earth  he  bent,  his  father's  hand  he  took, — 
What  was  there  in  its  touch  that  all  his  fiery  spirit  shook  ? 

That  hand  was  cold — a  frozen  thing — it  dropp'd  from  his  like  lead : 
He  look'd  up  to  the  face  above— the  face  was  of  the  dead ! 
A  plume  waved  o'er  the  noble  brow — the  brow  was  fix'd  and  white ; 
He  met  at  last  his  father's  eyes — but  in  them  was  no  sight  f 

Up  from  the  ground  he  sprung,  and  gazed,  but  who  could  paint  that 

gaze? 

They  hush'd  their  very  hearts,  that  saw  its  horror  and  amaze  ; 
They  might  have  chain'd  him,  as  before  that  stony  form  he  stood, 
For  the  power  was  stricken  from  his  arm,  and  from  his  lip  the  blood. 

"  Father ! "  at  length  he  murmur'd  low,  and  wept  like  childhood 

then — 
Talk  not  of  grief  till  thou  hast  seen  the  tears  of  warlike  men ! — 


HE  MANS.  169 


Pie  thought  on  all  his  glorious  hopes,  and  all  his  young  renown, — 
He  flung  the  falchion  from  his  side,  and  in  the  dust  sat  down. 

Then  covering  with  his  steel-gloved  hands  his  darkly  mournful  brow, 
"  No  more,  there  is  no  more,"  he  said,  "  to  lift  the  sword  for  now. — 
My  king  is  false,  my  hope  betray'd,  my  father — oh !  the  worth, 
The  glory  and  the  loveliness,  are  pass'd  away  from  earth ! 

"  I  thought  to  stand  where  banners  waved,  my  sire !  beside  thee  yet — 
I  would  that  these  our  kindred  blood  on  Spain's  free  soil  had  met ! 
Thou  wouldst  have  known  my  spirit  then — for  thee  my  fields  were 

won, — 
And  thou  hast  perish'd  in  thy  chains,  as  though  thou  hadst  no  son !  " 

Then,  starting  from  the  ground  once  more,  he  seized  the  monarch's 

rein, 

Amidst  the  pale  and  wilder'd  looks  of  all  the  courtier  train  ; 
And  with  a  fierce,  o'ermastering  grasp,  the  rearing  war-horse  led, 
And  sternly  set  them  face  to  face — the  king  before  the  dead ! — 

"  Came  I  not  forth  upon  my  pledge,  my  father's  hand  to  kiss  ? — 
Be  still,  and  gaze  thou  on,  false  king !  and  tell  me  what  is  this ! 
The  voice,  the  glance,  the  heart  I  sought — give  answer,  where  are 

.they?— 

If  thou  wouldst  clear  thy  perjured  soul,  send  life  through  this  cold 
clay! 

"  Into  these  glassy  eyes  put  light. — Be  still !  keep  down  thine  ire, — 
Bid  these  white  lips  a  blessing  speak — this  earth  is  not  my  sire  ! 
Give  me  back  him  for  whom  I  strove,  for  whom  my  blood  was  shed, — 
Thou  canst  not — and  a  king !    His  dust  be  mountains  on  thy  head !  " 

He  loosed  the  steed ;  his  slack  hand  fell — upon  the  silent  face 

He  cast  one  long,  deep,  troubled  look — then  turn'd  from  that  sad 

place : 

His  hope  was  crush'd,  his  after-fate  untold  in  martial  strain, — 
His  banner  led  the  spears  no  more  amidst  the  hills  of  Spain. 

THE  MESSAGE  TO  THE  DEAD. 

Thou  'rt  passing  hence,  my  brother ! 

O  my  earliest  friend,  farewell ! 
Thou  'rt  leaving  me,  without  thy  voice, 

In  a  lonely  home  to  dwell ; 
And  from  the  hills,  and  from  the  hearth, 

And  from  the  household  tree, 
With  thee  departs  the  lingering  mirth, 

The  brightness  goes  with  the'e. 
15 


170  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


But  thou,  my  friend,  my  brother ! 

Thou'rt  speeding  to  the  shore 
Where  the  dirgelike  tone  of  parting  words 

Shall  smite  the  soul  no  more! 
And  thou  wilt  see  our  holy  dead, 

The  lost  on  earth  and  main : 
Into  the  sheaf  of  kindred  hearts, 

Thou  wilt  be  bound  again! 

Tell,  then,  our  friend  of  boyhood 

That  yet  his  name  is  heard 
On  the  blue  mountains,  whence  his  youth 

Pass'd  like  a  swift,  bright  bird. 
The  light  of  his  exulting  brow, 

The  vision  of  his  glee, 
Are  on  me  still — oh!   still  I  trust 

That  smile  again  to  see. 

And  tell  our  fair  young  sister, 

The  rose  cut  down  in  spring, 
That  yet  my  gushing  soul  is  fill'd 

With  lays  she  loved  to  sing. 
Her  soft  deep  eyes  look  through  my  dreams, 

Tender  and  sadly  sweet; — 
Tell  her  my  heart  within  me  burns 

Once  more  that  gaze  to  meet. 

And  tell  our  white-hair'd  father, 

That  in  the  paths  he  trod, 
The  child  he  loved,  the  last  on  earth, 

Yet  walks  and  worships  God. 
Say,  that  his  last  fond  blessing  yet 

Rests  on  my  soul  like  dew, 
And  by  its  hallowing  might  I  trust 

Once  more  his  face  to  view. 

And  tell  our  gentle  mother, 

That  on  her  grave  I  pour 
The  sorrows  of  my  spirit  forth, 

As  on  her  breast  of  yore. 
Happy  thou  art  that  soon,  how  soon, 

Our  good  and  bright  will  see ! — 
O  brother,  brother !  may  I  dwell, 

Ere  long,  with  them  and  thee ! 

The  next,  from  her  Miscellaneous  Poems,  may  serve  as  a  fair 
exponent  of  our  poetess's  felicity  as  a  delineator  of  nature. 


HE  MANS.  171 


THE  VOICE   OF  SPRING. 

I  come,  I  come !  ye  have  call'd  me  long — 
I  come  o'er  the  mountains  with  light  and  song! 
Ye  may  trace  my  step  o'er  the  wakening  earth 
By  the  winds  which  tell  of  the  violet's  birth, 
By  the  primrose-stars  in  the  shadowy  grass, 
By  the  green  leaves  opening  as  I  pass. 

I  have  breathed  on  the  South,  and  the  chestnut  flowers 
By  thousands  have  burst  from  the  forest-bowers, 
And  the  ancient  graves  and  the  fallen  fanes 
Are  veil'd  with  wreaths  on  Italian  plains; — 
But  it  is  not  for  me,  in  my  hour  of  bloom, 
To  speak  of  the  ruin  or  the  tomb! 

I  have  look'd  on  the  hills  of  the  stormy  North, 

And  the  larch  has  hung  all  his  tassels  forth, 

The  fisher  is  out  on  the  sunny  sea, 

And  the  reindeer  bounds  o'er  the  pastures  free, 

And  the  pine  has  a  fringe  of  softer  green, 

And  the  moss  looks  bright  where  my  foot  hath  been. 

I  have  sent  through  the  wood-paths  a  glowing  sigh, 
And  call'd  out  each  voice  of  the  deep  blue  sky; 
From  the  night-bird's  lay  through  the  starry  time, 
In  the  groves  of  the  soft  Hesperian  clime, 
To  the  swan's  wild  note  by  the  Iceland  lakes, 
When  the  dark  fir-branch  into  verdure  breaks. 

From  the  streams  and  founts  I  have  loosed  the  chain, 
They  are  sweeping  on  to  the  silvery  main, 
They  are  flashing  down  from  the  mountain  brows, 
They  are  flinging  spray  o'er  the  forest  boughs, 
They  are  bursting  fresh  from  their  sparry  caves, 
And  the  earth  resounds  with  the  joy  of  waves ! 

Come  forth,  O  ye  children  of  gladness !  come ! 
Where  the  violets  lie  may  be  now  your  home. 
Ye  of  the  rose-lip  and  dew-bright  eye, 
And  the  bounding  footstep,  to  meet  me  fly ! 
With  the  lyre,  and  the  wreath,  and  the  joyous  lay, 
Come  forth  to  the  sunshine — I  may  not  stay. 

Away  from  the  dwellings  of  care-worn  men, 
The  waters  are  sparkling  in  grove  and  glen! 


172  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Away  from  the  chamber  and  sullen  hearth, 
The  young  leaves  are  dancing  in  breezy  mirth ! 
The  light  stems  thrill  to  the  wild-wood  strains, 
And  youth  is  abroad  in  my  green  domains. 

But  ye ! — ye  are  changed  since  ye  met  me  last ! 
There  is  something  bright  from  your  features  pass'd! 
There  is  that  come  over  your  brow  and  eye 
Which  speaks  of  a  world  where  the  flowers  must  die ! 
— Ye  smile !  but  your  smile  hath  a  dimness  yet : 
Oh!  what  have  you  look'd  on  since  last  we  met? 

Ye  are  changed,  ye  are  changed ! — and  I  see  not  here 
All  whom  I  saw  in  the  vanish'd  year! 
There  were  graceful  heads,  with  their  ringlets  bright, 
Which  toss'd  in  the  breeze  with  a  play  of  light; 
There  were  eyes  in  whose  glistening  laughter  lay 
No  faint  remembrance  of  dull  decay ! 

There  were  steps  that  flew  o'er  the  cowslip's  head, 

As  if  for  a  banquet  all  earth  were  spread ; 

There  were  voices  that  rang  through  the  sapphire  sky, 

And  had  not  a  sound  of  mortality! 

Are  they  gone?  is  their  mirth  from  the  mountains  pass'd? 

Ye  have  look'd  on  death  since  ye  met  me  last! 

I  know  whence  the  shadow  comes  o'er  you  now — 
Ye  have  strewn  the  dust  on  the  sunny  brow ! 
Ye  have  given  the  lonely  to  earth's  embrace — 
She  has  taken  the  fairest  of  beauty's  race, 
With  their  laughing  eyes  and  their  festal  crown: 
They  are  gone  from  amongst  you  in  silence  down! 

They  are  gone  from  amongst  you,  the  young  and  fair, 
Ye  have  lost  the  gleam  of  their  shining  hair! 
But  I  know  of  a  land  where  there  falls  no  blight— 
I  shall  find  them  there,  with  their  eyes  of  light ! 
Where  Death  midst  the  blooms  of  the  morn  may  dwell, 
I  tarry  no  longer — farewell,  farewell ! 

The  summer  is  coming,  on  soft  winds  borne — 

Ye  may  press  the  grape,  ye  may  bind  the  corn ! 

For  me,  I  depart  to  a  brighter  shore — 

Ye  are  mark'd  by  care,  ye  are  mine  no  more; 

I  go  where  the  loved  who  have  left  you  dwell, 

And  the  flowers  are  not  Death's.     Fare  ye  well,  farewell ! 


HE  MANS.  173 


Our  concluding  extract  is  from  De  Chatillon;  or,  The  Crusa- 
ders,  a  tragedy  published  after  the  author's  death. 

Characters:  Raimer  de  Chatillon,  a  French  Baron;  Aymer,  his  brother;  Melech,  a 
Saracen  Emir;  Moraima,  daughter  of  Melech,  and  beloved  of  Aymer. 

ACT  V. 
SCENE  II. — A  Pavilion  in  the  Camp  of  Melech. 

Melech.  It  must  be  that  these  sounds  and  sights  of  war         • 

Shake  her  too  gentle  nature.    Yes,  her  cheek 
Fades  hourly  in  my  sight !    What  other  cause — 
None,  none!   She  must  go  hence  1  Choose  from  thy  band 
The  bravest,  Sadi !  and  the  longest  tried, 
And  I  will  send  my  child — 
Voice  without.  Where  is  your  chief? 

(Arab  and  Turkish  soldiers  enter  with  De  Chatillon.) 

Arab  Chief.    The  sons  of  Kedar's  tribe  have  brought  to  the  son 
Of  the  prophet's  house  a  prisoner ! 

Mel.  (half  drawing  his  sword.)  Chatillon ! 

That  slew  my  boy !    Thanks  for  the  avenger's  hour ! 

Sadi,  their  guerdon — give  it  them — the  gold ! 

And  me  the  vengeance !    This  is  he 

That  slew  my  first-born !    Christian !  thou  hast  been 

Our  nation's  deadliest  foe ! 
Rai.  'T  is  joy  to  hear 

I  have  not  lived  in  vain ! 
Mel.  Thou  bear'st  thyself 

With  a  conqueror's  mein !    What  is  thy  hope  from  me  ? 
Rai.  A  soldier's  death. 

Mel.  Then  thou  would'st/ear  a  slave's? 

Rai.  Fear ! — As  if  man's  own  spirit  had  not  power 

To  make  his  death  a  triumph !     Waste  not  words ; 

Let  my  blood  bathe  thine  own  sword.    Infidel ! 

I  slew  thy  son!     (Looking  at  his  broken  sword.)    Ay, 

there 's  the  red  mark  here ! 
Mel.  Thou  darest  to  tell  me  this!     (A  tumult  heard  without, 

voices  crying — a  Chatillon. !) 
Rai.  My  brother's  voice !    He  is  saved ! 

Mel.  (calling.)  What,  ho !  my  guards ! 

(Aymer  enters  with  the  knights  fighting  their  way  through  Melech 's 

soldiers,  who  are  driven  before  them.) 
Aym.  On  with  the  war-cry  of  our  ancient  house, 

For  the  Cross— De  Chatillon ! 
15* 


174  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

(Knights  shout.)    For  the  Cross— De  Chatillon ! 
(Raimer  attempts  to  break  from  his  guards.    Sadi  enters  with  more 
soldiers  to  the  assistance  of  Melech.    Aymer  and  the  knights  are 
overpowered.    Aymer  is  wounded  and  falls.) 
Mel.  Bring  fetters — bind  the  captives ! 

Rai.  Lost— all  lost ! 

No ! — he  is  saved !   (he  goes  up  to  Aymer.) 
Brother,  my  brother !  hast  thou  pardon'd  me 
That  which  I  did  to  save  thee  ?  Speak ! — forgive ! 
Aym.  (turning  from  him.) 

Thou  see'st  I  die  for  thee ! — She  is  avenged ! 
Rai.  I  am  no  murderer ! — hear  me ! — turn  to  me ! 

We  are  parting  by  the  grave ! 
(Moraima  enters  veiled,  and  goes  up  to  Melech.) 

Mor.  Father ! — 0  !  look  not  sternly  on  thy  child, 

I  came  to  plead.    They  said  thou  had'st  condemn'd 

A  Christian  knight  to  die — 
Mel.  Hence— to  thy  tent ! 

Away — begone ! 
Aym.  (attempting  to  rise.) 

Moraima ! — hath  her  spirit  come 

To  make  death  beautiful?  Moraima!— speak. 
Mor.  It  was  his  voice ! — Aymer ! 

(She  rushes  to  him,  throwing  aside  her  veil.) 
Aym.  Thou  livest— thou  livest ! 

I  knew  thou  could'st  not  die !— Look  on  me  still. 

Thou  livest ! — and  makest  this  world  so  full  of  joy — 

But  I  depart ! 
Mel.  Moraima ! — hence !  is  this 

A  place  for  thee  ? 
Mor.  Away!  away! 

There  is  no  place  but  this  for  me  on  earth ! 

Where  should  I  go  ?  There  is  no  place  but  this ! 

My  soul  is  bound  to  it ! 
Mel.  (to  the  Guards.) 

Back,  slaves,  and  look  not  on  her ! 
(They  retreat  to  the  background.) 

'T  was  for  this  she  droop'd  to  the  earth. 
Aym.  Moraima,  fare  thee  well ! 

Think  on  me ! — I  have  loved  thee !  I  take  hence 

That  deep  love  with  my  soul !  for  well  I  know 

It  must  be  deathless ! 
Mor.  O !  thou  hast  not  known 


HE  MANS.  175 


What  woman's  love  is !  Aymer,  Aymer,  stay ! 
If  I  could  die  for  thee !  My  heart  has  grown 
So  strong  in  its  despair ! 

Rai.  (turning  from  them.}  And  all  the  past 

Forgotten ! — our  young  days  !---His  last  thoughts  hers  /— 

The  Infidel's! 
Aym.  (turning  his  head.) 

Thou  art  no  murderer !  Peace 

Between  us — peace,  my  brother!— In  our  deaths 

We  shall  be  join'd  once  more ! 

Rai.  (holding  the  cross  of  the  sword  before  him.) 

Look  yet  on  this ! 

Aym.  If  thou  had'st  only  told  me  that  she  lived ! 

— But  our  hearts  meet  at  last!  (kisses  the  cross.) 

Moraima !  save  my  brother !  Look  on  me ! 

Joy— there  is  joy  in  death !    (dies  on  Raimer's  arm.) 

Mor.  Speak— speak  once  more ! 

Aymer !  how  is  it  that  I  call  on  thee, 
And  that  thou  answerest  not?  Have  we  not  loved? 
Death !  death  !— and  this  is— death ! 

Rai.  So  thou  art  -gone, 

Aymer !   I  never  thought  to  weep  again — 
But  now — farewell !— Thou  wert  the  bravest  knight 
That  e'er  laid  lance  in  rest— and  thou  didst  wear 
The  noblest  form  that  ever  woman's  eye 
Dwelt  on  with  love ;  and  till  that  fatal  dream 
Came  o'er  thee ! — Aymer !  Aymer !  thou  wert  still 
The  most  true-hearted  brother ! — there  thou  art 
Whose  breast  was  once  my  shield !— I  never  thought 
That  foes  should  see  me  weep !  but  there  thou  art, 

4  Aymer,  my  brother ! — 

Mor.  (suddenly  rising.} 

With  his  last,  last  breath 
He  bade  me  save  his  brother ! 

(Falling  at  her  father^ 's  feet.)  Father,  spare 

The  Christian — spare  him ! 

Mel.  For  thy  sake  spare  him 

That  slew  thy  father's  son ! — Shame  to  thy  race ! 
Soldiers !  come  nearer  with  your  levell'd  spears ! 
Yet  nearer ; — Gird  him  in  ? — my  boy's  young  blood 
Is  on  his  sword, — Christian,  abjure  thy  faith, 
Or  die — thine  hour  is  come ! 

Rai.  ( Throwing  himself  on  the  spears.) 

Thou  hast  mine  answer,  Infidel ! 


176  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


(Catting  aloud  to  the  Knights.)  Knights  of  France ! 

Herman !   De  Foix !   Du  Mornay !  be  ye  strong ! 

Your  hour  will  come !   Must  the  old  war-cry  cease  ? 
(Half  raising  himself,  and  waving  the  Cross  triumphantly.) 

For  the  Cross — De  Chatillon !  [He  dies. 

11  How  vividly  the  verse  reflects  the  life !  How  redolent  of  nature 
is  her  poetry!  how  true  her  pictures  of  mountain,  and  forest,  and 
river,  and  sky !  It  is  singular  how,  without  the  least  apparent 
effort,  all  the  persons  she  brings  before  us  are  immediately  local- 
ized on  the  green  earth— trees  wave  around  them,  flowers  spring 
at  their  feet,  as  if  this  were  quite  natural  and  unavoidable. 

"  But  if  she  loved  in  nature,  pre-eminently,  the  beautiful  and 
the  serene — or  what  she  could  represent  as  such  to  her  imagination 
— it  was  otherwise  with  human  life.  Here  the  stream  of  thought 
ran  always  in  the  shade,  reflecting  in  a  thousand  shapes  the  sad- 
ness which  had  overshadowed  her  own  existence.  Yet  her  sadness 
was  without  bitterness  or  impatience — it  was  a  resigned  and  Chris- 
tian melancholy ;  and  if  the  spirit  of  man  is  represented  as  tossed 
from  disappointment  to  disappointment,  there  is  always  a  brighter 
and  serener  world  behind,  to  receive  the  wanderer  at  last. 

"One  great  and  pervading  excellence  of  Mrs.  Hemans,  as  a 
writer,  is  her  entire  dedication  of  her  genius  and  talents  to  the 
cause  of  healthy  morality  and  sound  religion.  The  sentiment  may 
be,  on  occasion,  somewhat  refined  ;  it  may  be  too  delicate,  in  some 
instances,  for  the  common  taste,  but  never  is  it  mawkish  or  mor- 
bid. The  general  fault  of  her  poetry  consists  in  its  being  rather 
too  romantical.  We  have  a  little  too  much  of  banners  in  churches, 
and  flowers  on  graves, — or  self-immolated  youths,  and  broken- 
hearted damsels ; — too  frequent  a  reference  to  the  Syrian  plains, 
and  knights  in  panoply,  and  vigils  of  arms,  as  mere  illustrations 
of  the  noble  in  character,  or  the  heroic  in  devotion.  * 

"  When  placed  beside,  and  contrasted  with,  her  great  contempo- 
raries, the  excellences  of  Mrs.  Hemans  are  sufficiently  distinct  and 
characteristic.  There  can  he  no  doubt  of  this,  more  especially  in 
her  later  and  best  writings,  in  which  she  makes  incidents  elucidate 
feelings.  In  this  magic  circle — limited  it  may  be — she  has  no 
rival.  Hence,  from  the  picturesqueness,  the  harmony,  the  delicacy 
and  grace,  which  her  compositions  display,  she  is  peculiarly  the 
poet  of  her  own  sex.  Her  pictures  are  not  more  distinguished  for 
accuracy  of  touch  than  for  elegance  of  finish.  Everything  is  clear, 
and  defined,  and  palpable ;  nothing  is  enveloped  in  accommodating 
haze.  She  is  ever  alive  to  the  dignity  of  her  calling  and  the  purity 
of  her  sex."* 

*  Blackwood's  Magazine,  Dec.,  1848. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE  was  born  October  21,  1772,  at 
Ottery,  St.  Mary,  Devonshire.  "  He  was  the  youngest  of  ten 
children,  and,  as  his  father,  the  vicar  of  the  parish  of  Ottery, 
and  master  of  the  grammar-school,  had  but  a  small  salary,  the 
means  of  the  family  were  much  straitened."* 

Describing  his  early  years,  the  poet  himself  says  :  "  I  became 
a  dreamer,  and  acquired  an  indisposition  to  all  bodily  activity ; 
I  was  fretful,  and  inordinately  passionate ;  and  as  I  could  not 
play  at  anything,  and  was  slothful,  I  was  despised  and  hated 
by  the  boys;  and,  because  I  could  read  and  spell,  and  had,  I 
may  truly  say,  a  memory  and  understanding  forced  into  almost 
unnatural  ripeness,  I  was  flattered  and  wondered  at" by  all  the 
old  women. "f 

In  July,  1782,  he  was  admitted  to  Christ  Hospital,  where, 
during  a  period  of  eight  years,  he  maintained  a  high  character 
for  scholarship,  and  thereby  won  preferment  to  Jesus  College, 
Cambridge,  at  which  school,  however,  he  spent  only  about  two 
years.  Leaving  Cambridge  very  abruptly,  and  for  reasons  not 
certainly  known,  he  went  to  London  in  1793,  and  here,  find- 
ing himself  without  friends  and  without  means,  he  suddenly 
enlisted  as  a  common  soldier.  From  this  unhappy  service  he 
was  shortly  released  by  the  accidental  discovery  of  his  scholarly 
attainments. 

It  was  at  Christ  Hospital  that  he  formed  the  acquaintance  of 
Charles  Lamb,  and  now,  returning  to  his  friends  from  the  army, 
he  first  meets,  at  Oxford,  Robert  Southey; — the  two  illustrious 
and  devoted  friends  who  afterward  mingled  in  and  influenced 
more  than  any  others  our  poet's  society  and  life.  With  the 
latter  he  soon  afterward  concocted  a  scheme  for  establishing,  on 
the  banks  of  the  Susquehanna,  a  "  social  colony,  in  which  there 

*  Memoir.  t  Letter  to  Mr.  Poole. 

M  177 


178  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

was  to  be  a  community  of  property,  and  all  that  was  selfish  was 
to  be  proscribed."  But,  like  most  of  his  extraordinary  projects, 
it  proved  abortive. 

About  this  time,  and  while  visiting  Cambridge,  he  published 
(1794)  The  Fall  of  Robespierre,  a  drama  written  jointly  by  him- 
self and  Southey.  "  It  was  little  better  than  a  versified  news- 
paper, and  did  not  possess  merit  enough  to  overcome  the  want 
of  dramatic  interest  that  attaches  to  plays  founded  on  contem- 
poraneous events."  The  winter  and  spring  of  the  following 
year  were  employed  in  giving  public  lectures  at  Bristol  on 
political,  religious,  and  moral  subjects,  two  of  which  were  after- 
ward published.  In  April,  1796,  his  first  volume  of  poems  ap- 
peared. About  the  same  time  he  began  the  publication  of  a 
Miscellany,  called  The  Watchman,  which  survived  through  only 
ten  numbers  (about  two  months),  its  performance  falling  far 
short  of  its  ambitious  promise. 

The  next  year  (1797),  while  enjoying  the  society  of  Words- 
w.orth  and  Lamb,  in  the  vicinity  of  Stowey,  he  published  a  second 
and  enlarged  edition  of  poems.  "  This  year  has  been  called  the 
annus  mirabilis  of  Coleridge's  life  ;  his  poetical  powers  had 
reached  their  culminating  point.  That  wonderful  poem,  The 
Ancient  Mariner ;  the  first  and  perhaps  the  more  beautiful  part 
of  Christabel;  the  finest  of  his  tragedies,  Remorse,  were  all  com- 
posed in  its  course,  as  well  as  the  beautiful  little  poem  entitled 
Love"*  Hazlitt  has  remarked:  "  His  Ancient  Mariner  is  his 
most  remarkable  performance,  and  the  only  one  that  I  could 
point  out  to  any  one  as  giving  an  adequate  idea  of  his  great 
natural  powers." 

In  September,  1798,  our  poet,  in  company  with  Wordsworth, 
left  England  on  a  visit  to  Germany,  and  spent  five  months  of 
the  time  at  the  University  of  Gottingen.  Returning  the  next 
year,  he  located  at  London,  and  began  writing  for  the  "Morning 
Post."  In  1800  appeared  his  Translation  of  Schiller  s  Wallen- 
stein,  "  one  of  the  best  of  Coleridge's  works,  and  one  of  the  finest 
translations  that  our  language  possesses."  The  same  year  he 
left  London  and  went  to  live  at  Keswick,  in  the  beautiful  Lake 
region.  The  next  three  years  were  prolific  in  little  else  than 
literary  schemes,  which  were  but  half  conceived  when  abandoned. 

*  Memoir. 


COLERIDGE.  179 


Coleridge  had,  before  the  present  date,  become  a  confirmed 
opium-eater,  and  was,  at  this  time,  suffering  indescribable  tor- 
tures, bodily  and  mental,  in  consequence  thereof.  In  hope  of 
alleviating  his  miseries  and  restoring  his  broken  health  he 
went  abroad,  first  to  Malta,  and  afterward  to  Rome ;  but,  in 
1806,  returned  home,  unimproved.  Two  or  three  years  later  he 
abandoned  his  family  to  the  care  of  Southey,  and  went  to  live 
with  Wordsworth  at  Grassmere.  "  Here  The  Friend  was  pro- 
jected, and  in  good  part  written,  and  here  its  publication,  in 
numbers,  commenced  on  the  8th  of  June,  1809." 

We  next  hear  of  Coleridge  in  London,  delivering  a  course  of 
lectures  on  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  and  writing  articles  for  the 
"Courier,"  which  were  favorably  received  and  well  paid  for. 
The  character  of  his  life  for  the  greater  part  of  the  next  four  or 
five  years  is  perhaps  best  portrayed  by  a  passage  from  one  of 
Coleridge's  letters  written  at  the  time.  He  writes  :  "Conceive 
a  poor  miserable  wretch,  wrho  for  many  years  has  been  attempt- 
ing to  beat  off  pain  by  a  constant  recurrence  to  the  vice  which 
produces  it.  Conceive  a  spirit  in  hell,  employed  in  tracing  out 
for  others  the  road  to  that  heaven  from  which  his  crimes  exclude 
him !  In  short,  conceive  whatever  is  most  wretched,  helpless, 
and  hopeless,  and  you  will  form  as  tolerable  a  notion  of  my 
state  as  it  is  possible  for  a  good  man  to  have." 

In  April,  1816,  Coleridge  went  to  Mr.  Gillman'sat  Highgate, 
and  there,  attended  by  a  devotion  and  benevolence  on  the  part 
of  host  and  hostess  rarely  if  ever  precedented,  passed  the  re- 
mainder of  his  mournful  and  restless  life.  Here,  in  a  most 
lovely  retreat,  "  like  a  sage  escaped  from  the  inanity  of  life's 
battle,"  he  spent  much  of  his  time  in  discoursing  upon  all  im- 
aginable topics,  and  with  surprising  volubility  and  fervor,  to 
the  friends  and  distinguished  visitors  who  flocked  to  see  and 
hear  him. 

The  literary  products  of  these  last  eighteen  years  were  two 
Lay  Sermons,  the  second  part  and  conclusion  of  Christabel,  a 
volume  of  poems  entitled  Sibylline  Leaves,  Biographia  Literaria, 
Zapolya,  a  Christmas  Tale,  another  series  of  Lectures  and  Aids 
to  Reflection. 

Coleridge  died  July  25,  1834. 


180  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 
PART  I. 

It  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three. 

"  By  thy  long  grey  beard  and  glittering  eye, 

Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me? 

The  Bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide, 
And  I  am  next  of  kin ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set : 
May'st  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 
"  There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he. 
"Hold  off!   unhand  me,  grey -beard  loon!" 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye — 
The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still, 
And  listens  like  a  three  years'  child  : 
The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a  stone: 
He  cannot  choose  but  hear; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

"  The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbor  cleared, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

Below  the  light-house  top. 

The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he! 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

Higher  and  higher  every  day, 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon — " 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast, 

For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall, 
Red  as  a  rose  is  she; 
Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  Wedding-Guest  he  beat  his  breast, 
Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 


COLERIDGE.  181 


And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

"  And  now  the  storm-blast  came,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong: 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings, 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow, 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 

Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 

And  forward  bends  his  head, 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold: 
And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 

And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts 
Did  send  a  dismal  sheen: 
No  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken — 
The  ice  was  all  between. 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around : 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and  howled, 

Like  noises  in  a  swound ! 

At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross, 
Through  the  fog  it  came; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 
We  hailed  it  in  God's  name. 

It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat, 
And  round  and  round  it  flew. 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit; 
The  helmsman  steered  us  through! 

And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind, 

The  Albatross  did  follow, 

And  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 

Came  to  the  mariner's  hallo! 

In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 
It  perched  for  vespers  nine; 
While  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white, 
Glimmered  the  white  moonshine." 
16 


182  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

"  God  save  thee,  ancient  Mariner ! 
From  the  fiends,  that  plague  thee  thus ! — 
Why  look'st  thou  so?" — "With  my  cross-bow 
I  shot  the  Albatross." 

PART   II. 

"The  sun  now  rose  upon  the  right: 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariner's  hallo! 

And  I  had  done  a  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  'em  woe : 

For  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow, 

Ah  wretch !  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow! 

Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head, 

The  glorious  Sun  uprist: 

Then  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 

'T  was  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay, 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 

The  furrow  followed  free; 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  silent  sea. 

Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down, 
'T  was  sad  as  sad  could  be ; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea! 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  Sun,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion ; 


COLERIDGE.  183 


As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

Water,  water,  everywhere, 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink; 
Water,  water,  everywhere, 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot:  O  Christ! 
That  ever  this  should  be! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night ; 
The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 
Burnt  green,  and  blue  and  white. 

And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  Spirit  that  plagued  us  so; 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 
Was  withered  at  the  root; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

Ah!  well  a-day!   what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young! 
Instead  of  the  cross  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung " 

"  Leading  off  his  verse  stands  the  Ancient  Mariner — probably  the 
most  characteristic  manifestation  of  his  powers — and  one  of  the 
strongest  and  wildest  sallies  of  pure  imagination  anywhere  to  be 
found,  whether  in  reference  to  machinery  or  manner.  It  is  a  unique 
performance,  reminding  us  of  nothing  else.  We  cannot  idealize 
anything  relating  to  earth  so  utterly  unearthly  as  it  is — so  far  re- 
moved beyond  the  boundary  of  common  associations."  * 

HYMN  BEFORE  SUNRISE,  IN  THE  VALE  OF  CHAMOUNI. 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning-star 
On  his  steep  course?    So  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  0  sovran  Blanc ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 


D.  M.  Moir's  Poetical  Literature  of  past  Half-fJentunj. 


184  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Rave  ceaselessly ;  but  thou,  most  awful  Form ! 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently !    Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 
An  ebon  mass:   methinks  thou  piercest  it, 
As  with  a  wedge!    But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount!     I  gazed  upon  thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :   entranced  in  prayer 

1  worshiped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  thought, 
Yea,  with  my  life  and  life's  own  secret  joy  : 
Till  the  dilating  Soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  Heaven ! 

Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest!  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy !  Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song !  Awake,  my  Heart,  awake ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  Hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the  Vale ! 
O  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink : 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  Earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald :   wake,  O  wake,  and  utter  praise ! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  Earth? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad! 
Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  Rocks, 
For  ever  shattered  and  the  same  for  ever? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 
Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam? 
And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came,) 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest? 


COLERIDGE.  185 


Ye  ice-falls!  ye  that  from  the  mountain  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice, 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge. 
Motionless  torrents!   silent  cataracts! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  Heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon?    Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows?    Who,  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  ? — 
God !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer!  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God! 
God !  sing  ye  meadow-streams  with  gladsome  voice ! 
Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds ! 
And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God ! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain-storm ! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise ! 

Thou  too,  hoar  Mount !  writh  thy  sky-pointing  peaks, 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds,  that  veil  thy  breast — 
Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain !  thou 
That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow  traveling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me — Rise,  0  ever  rise, 
Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  Earth ! 
Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  Earth  to  Heaven, 
Great  hierarch !   tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 

The  following  brief  extract  is  taken  from  an  essay  "  On  Sensi- 
bility," in  Aids  to  Reflection. 

Where  virtue  is,  sensibility  is  the  ornament  and  becoming  attire  of  virtue. 
On  certain  occasions  it  may  almost  be  said  to  become  virtue.  But  sensi- 
bility and  all  the  amiable  qualities  may  likewise  become,  and  too  often 

have  become,  the  panders  of  vice Do  you  in  good  earnest  aim  at 

1C* 


186  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


dignity  of  character?  By  all  the  treasures  of  a  peaceful  mind,  by  all  the 
charms  of  an  open  countenance,  I  conjure  you,  O  youth  !  turn  away  from 
those  who  live  in  the  twilight  between  vice  and  virtue.  Are  not  reason, 
discrimination,  law,  and  deliberate  choice,  the  distinguishing  characters  of 
humanity?  Can  aught  then  worthy  of  a  human  being  proceed  from  a  habit 
of  soul,  which  would  exclude  all  these  and  (to  borrow  a  metaphor  from 
paganism)  prefer  the  den  of  Trophonius  to  the  temple  and  oracles  of  the 
God  of  light?  Can  anything  manly,  I  say,  proceed  from  those,  who  for 
law  and  light  would  substitute  shapeless  feelings,  sentiments,  impulses, 
which,  as  far  as  they  differ  from  the  vital  workings  in  the  brute  animals, 
owe  the  difference  to  their  former  connection  with  the  proper  virtues  of 
humanity ;  as  dendrites  derive  the  outlines,  that  constitute  their  value  above 
other  clay-stones,  from  the  casual  neighborhood  and  pressure  of  the  plants, 
the  names  of  which  they  assume.  Remember,  that  love  itself  in  its  highest 
earthly  bearing,  as  the  ground  of  the  marriage  union,  becomes  love  by  an 
inward  fiat  of  the  will,  by  a  completing  and  sealing  act  of  moral  election, 
and  lays  claim  to  permanence  only  under  the  form  of  duty. 

"  These  books  (Aids  to  Reflection  and  The  Friend)  came  from  one 
whose  vocation  was  in  the  world  of  art ;  and  yet,  perhaps,  of  all 
books  that  have  been  influential  in  modern  times,  they  are  farthest 
from  the  classical  form — bundles  of  notes — the  original  matter  in- 
separably mixed  up  with  that  borrowed  from  others — the  whole  just 
that  preparation  for  an  artistic  effect  which  the  finished  artist  would 
be  careful  one  day  to  destroy."  * 

"  What  the  reader  of  our  own  generation  will  least  find  in  Cole- 
ridge's prose  writings  is  the  excitement  of  the  literary  sense.  And 
yet  in  those  gray  volumes  we  have  the  productions  of  one  who 
made  way  ever  by  a  charm,  the  charm  of  voice,  of  aspect,  of  lan- 
guage, above  all,  by  the  intellectual  charm  of  new,  moving,  luminous 
ideas.  Perhaps  the  chief  offense  in  Coleridge  is  an  excess  of  serious- 
ness, a  seriousness  that  arises  not  from  any  moral  principle,  but 
from  a  misconception  of  the  perfect  manner,  "f 

"  His  studies  lay  not  in  classical  sunshine,  but  in  the  twilight  of 
monastic  speculation,  and  of  Gothic  romance.  .  .  .  He  would  not 
keep  the  high-road  if  he  could  find  a  by-path  ;  and  he  thrust  aside 
the  obvious  and  true,  to  clutch  at  the  quaint  and  the  curious.  In 
short,  in  defiance  of  the  jeweler's  estimate,  he  would  have  preferred 
a  moonstone,  simply  because  it  had  fallen  down  from  another  sphere, 
to  the  richest  diamond  ever  dug  from  the  mines  of  Golconda/'J 

"  It  has  been  imputed  to  Coleridge,  that,  notwithstanding  the 
multifarious  riches  of  his  own  mind,  he  was  fond  of  borrowing  ideas 
from  others.  Nor  was  this  without  foundation  ;  and  it  was  wrong. 
But  after  all,  and  deducting  every  item  that  has  been  claimed  for 
others,  enough,  and  more  than  enough,  remains  to  leave  his  high 
literary  status  beyond  challenge. "3 

*  Westminster  Review,  January,  1866.  t  Ibid. 

%  D.  M.  Moir's  Poetical  Literature  oj  past  Half  -  Century.  g  Ibid. 


LORD    BYRON. 


GEORGE  GORDON,  Lord  Byron,  only  son  of  Captain  John 
Byron,  of  the  Guards,  and  Catherine  Gordon,  of  Gight,  was 
born  January  22,  1788,  in  Holies  Street,  London.  His  father, 
a  man  of  dissolute  and  expensive  habits,  died  when  our  poet 
was  but  three  years  old.  Receiving  the  rudiments  of  his  edu- 
cation at  the  grammar-school  in  Aberdeen,  Byron  passed  the 
next  four  years  at  Harrow,  and  then,  in  1805,  entered  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge. 

His  first  attempt  at  poetry  is  said  to  have  been  made  at 
twelve  years  of  age,  and  in  1806  he  caused  to  be  printed  a 
small  volume  of  poems  for  private  circulation.  The  first  work 
of  which  the  general  public  had  knowledge  was  The  Hours  of 
Idleness,  published  in  1807.  It  was  very  ungraciously,  even 
unmercifully,  handled  by  the  "  Edinburgh  Review;"  and  two 
years  later  Byron  quite  as  unmercifully  retorted  in  a  satire,  en- 
titled English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers. 

In  1809  Byron  took  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords ;  but  dis- 
gusted with  the  unfriendly  reception  he  there  met  with,  almost 
immediately  retired  to  his  home,  Newstead  Abbey,  and  shortly 
afterward  set  out  upon  a  tour  of  the  Continent.  During  an  ab- 
sence of  between  two  and  three  years,  he  visited  portions  of 
Portugal,  Spain,  Greece,  Turkey,  and  Asia  Minor.  Soon  after 
his  return,  in  1812,  he  published  the  first  two  cantos  of  Childe 
Harold,  whose  reception  was  such  as  to  cause  its  author  to  con- 
fess :  "  I  awoke  one  morning  and  found  myself  famous." 

In  1813  he  produced  successively  Giaour,  Bride  of  Abydos — 
written  in  a  week — and  The  Corsair — written  in  ten  days.  Two 
years  later  he  married  Anne  Isabella  Milbanke,  whom  he  eulo- 
gized as  "  a  very  superior  woman  ;  "  but  between  whom  and  him- 
self, he  at  the  same  time  affirmed,  there  did  not  exist  "  one  spark 
of  love  on  either  side."  Their  married  life  was  of  but  little 
more  than  a  year's  continuance. 

187 


188  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

In  1816  Byron  published  The  Siege  of  Corinth  and  Parisina. 
Owing  to  the  social  disfavor  into  which  he  had  fallen  in  conse- 
quence of  his  late  matrimonial  disagreement,  he  left  England, 
in  1816,  for  the  second  and  last  time.  He  directed  his  course 
to  Switzerland,  where,  during  the  same  year,  he  composed  the 
third  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  The  Prisoner  of  Chilian,  Darkness, 
The  Dream,  and  also  a  part  of  Manfred,  completing  the  same 
at  Venice  in  1817. 

The  next  two  years  were  passed  in  Venice,  and  bore  as  their 
literary  fruits,  The  Lament  of  Tasso,  Beppo,  the  fourth  canto 
of  Childe  Harold,  Marino  Faliero,  The  Foscari,  Mazeppa,  and  a 
part  of  Don  Juan.  Here,  too,  was  contracted  that  unfortunate 
and  scandalous  relation  between  Byron  and  the  Countess  Guic- 
cioli.  The  years  from  1819  to  1821  were  spent  at  Ravenna, 
whence  he  gave  to  the  world  Don  Juan,  The  Prophecy  of  Dante, 
Sardanapalus,  and  the  mysteries — Heaven  and  Earth,  and  Cain. 
During  these  years,  too,  he  associated  with  the  poet  Shelley — 
at  whose  sad  funeral  he  assisted, — and,  in  conjunction  with  the 
Brothers  Hunt,  he  engaged  in  publishing  for  a  short  time  "  The 
Liberal." 

About  this  time  a  great  revolutionary  struggle  broke  out  in 
Greece,  and  thither,  in.  1823,  Byron  went;  bringing  to  the  good 
cause  the  aid  both  of  his  enthusiastic  advocacy  and  of  a  liberal 
purse.  But  the  excitement,  the  vexations,  and  the  exposures  of 
the  soldier's  life  were  too  severe  for  his  already  enfeebled  con- 
stitution ;  and  his  proud,  sensitive,  brave,  generouc,  impulsive, 
intractable  spirit  succumbed  to  the  only  King  of  Terrors  it  had 
ever  recognized,  on  April  19th,  1824. 

From  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  Canto  III.,  we  select  the 
following  verses : 

Clear,  placid  Leman !  thy  contrasted  lake, 
With  the  wild  world  I  dwell  in,  is  a  thing 
Which  warns  me  with  its  stillness  to  forsake 
Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction;  once  I  loved 
Torn  ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved, 
That  I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so  moved. 


BYRON.  189 


It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 
Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen, 
Save  darken'd  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  appear 
Precipitously  steep ;  and  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 
Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more; 

He  is  an  evening  reveler,  who  makes 
His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill : 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 
Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill; 
But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instil, 
Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 

Ye  stars!  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven, 
If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  empires, — 'tis  to  be  forgiven, 
That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great, 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state, 
And  claim  a  kindred  with  you;  for  ye  are 
A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar, 
That  .fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  themselves  a  star. 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still — though  not  in  sleep, 
But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most; 
And  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts  too  deep : — 
All  heaven  and  earth  are  still:   from  the  high  host 
Of  stars,  to  the  lull'd  lake  and  mountain-coast, 
All  is  concenter'd  in  a  life  intense, 
Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  defense 

The  sky  is  changed ! — and  suoh  a  change !    O  night, 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman !     Far  along, 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder!     Not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue; 


190  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud ! 

And  this  is  in  the  night:   most  glorious  night! 
Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber !  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee ! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea, 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth! 
And  now  again  't  is  black ;  and  now,  the  glee 
Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth, 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 

Now,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  hath  cleft  his  way, 
The  mightiest  of  the  storms  hath  ta'en  his  stand: 
For  here,  not  one,  but  many,  make  their  play, 
And  fling  their  thunderbolts  from  hand  to  hand, 
Flashing  and  cast  around:   of  all  the  band, 
The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills  hath  fork'd 
His  lightnings,  as  if  he  did  understand 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  work'd, 
There  the  hot  shaft  should  blast  whatever  therein  lurk'd. 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings !  ye 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 
Things  that  have  made  me  watchful ;  the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless — if  I  rest. 
But  where  of  ye,  0  tempests,  is  the  goal  ? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast? 
Or  do  ye  find  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest? 

Could  I  embody  and  unbosom  now 
That  which  is  most  within  me;   could  I  wreak 
My  thoughts  upon  expression,  and  thus  throw 
Soul,  heart,  mind,  passions,  feelings  strong  or  weak, 
All  that  I  would  have  sought,  and  all  I  seek, 
Bear,  know,  feel,  and  yet  breathe — into  one  word, 
And  that  one  word  were  Lightning,  I  would  speak ; 
But  as  it  is,  I  live  and  die  unheard, 
With  a  most  voiceless  thought,  sheathing  it  as  a  sword. 

The  morn  is  up  again,  the  dewy  morn, 
With  breath  all  incense,  and  with  cheek  all  bloom, 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful  scorn, 
And  living  as  if  earth  contained  no  tomb, — 


BYRON.  191 


And  glowing  into  day:  we  may  resume 
The  march  of  our  existence;  and  thus  I, 
Still  on  thy  shores,  fair  Leman,  may  find  room 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 
Much,  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  pondered  fittingly. 

"  Byron's  is  not  the  passion  of  a  mind  struggling  with  misfortune, 
or  the  hopelessness  of  its  desires,  but  of  a  mind  preying  upon  itself, 
and  disgusted  with,  or  indifferent  to,  all  other  things."  * 

"  He  does  not  let  objects  speak,  but  forces  them  to  answer  him. 
Amidst  their  peace,  he  is  only  occupied  by  his  own  emotion.  He 
raises  them  to  the  tone  of  his  soul,  and  compels  them  to  repeat  bis 
own  cries.  All  is  inflated  here,  as  in  himself;  the  vast  strophe  rolls 
along,  carrying  on  its  overflowing  bed  the  flood  of  vehement  ideas ; 
declamation  unfolds  itself,  pompous,  and  at  times  artificial,  but 
potent,  and  so  often  sublime  that  the  rhetorical  dotings,  which  he 
yet  preserved,  disappeared  under  the  afflux  of  splendors,  with  which 
it  is  loaded."! 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gather'd  then 
Her  Beauty  and  her  Chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  look'd  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell ; 
But  hush !  hark !   a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell ! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it?— No;   'twas  but  the  wind, 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 
On  with  the  dance!   let  joy  be  unconfin'd; 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet. 
But  hark !— that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before ! 
Arm !  arm !  it  is — it  is — the  cannon's  opening  roar !  . .  . . 

Ah!  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blush'd  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness; 


*  William  Hazlitt's  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets, 
f  Taine's  English  Literature^  Vol.  II. 


192  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated :  who  would  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise! 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste:  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star; 
While  throng'd  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips— "The  foe!    They  come!  they 
come !".... 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave, — alas  ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe, 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and  low. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life, 
Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay, 
The  midnight  brought  the  signal  sound  of  strife, 
The  morn  the  marshaling  in  arms — the  day 
Battle's  magnificently  stern  array ! 
The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent, 
The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heap'd  and  pent, 
Rider  and  horse, — friend,  foe, — in  one  red  burial  blent  I* 

SCENE  IV. — Interior  of  the  Tower. 

MANFRED,  alone. 

The  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 
Of  the  snow-shining  mountains.    Beautiful! 
I  linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 
Hath  been  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 
Than  that  of  man;  and  in  her  starry  shade 
Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 

*  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage,  Canto  III. 


BYRON.  193 


I  learn'd  the  language  of  another  world, 
I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth, 
When  I  was  wandering — upon  such  a  night 
I  stood  within  the  Coliseum's  wall, 
Midst  the  chief  relics  of  almighty  Rome ; 
The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 
Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin;  from  afar 
The  watch-dog  bay'd  beyond  the  Tiber;  and 
More  near  from  out  the  Caesar's  palace  came 
The  owl's  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly, 
Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 
Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 
Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  beach 
Appear'd  to  skirt  the  horizon,  yet  they  stood 
Within  a  bowshot.    Where  the  Csesars  dwelt, 
And  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 
A  grove  which  springs  through  level'd  battlements, 
And  twines  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths, 
Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  growth ; 
But  the  gladiators'  bloody  Circus  stands, 
A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection! 
While  Caesar's  chambers,  and  the  Augustan  halls, 
Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay. 
A»d  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 
All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light, 
Which  soften'd  down  the  hoar  austerity 
Of  rugged  desolation,  and  fill'd  up, 
As  't  were  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries ; 
Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so, 
And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 
With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old  I—- 
The dead,  but  sceptered  sovereigns,  who  still  rule 
Our  spirits  from  their  urns. 

'Twas  such  a  night! 

'Tis  strange  that  I  recall  it  at  this  time; 
But  I  have  found  our  thoughts  take  wildest  flight 
Even  at  the  moment  when  they  should  array 
Themselves  in  pensive  orders. 

Enter  the  ABBOT. 

Abbot.  My  good  lord, 

I  crave  a  second  grace  for  this  approach; 
But  yet  let  not  my  humble  zeal  offend 
By  its  abruptness— all  it  hath  of  ill 
17  N 


194  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Recoils  on  me;  its  good  in  the  effect 

May  light  upon  your  head — could  I  say  heart — 

Could  I  touch  that,  with  words  or  prayers,  I  should 

Recall  a  noble  spirit  which  had  wander'd, 

But  is  not  yet  all  lost. 

Man.  Thou  know'st  *me  not ! 

My  days  are  number'd,  and  my  deeds  recorded : 
Retire,  or  'twill  be  dangerous — Away ! 

Abbot.  Thou  dost  not  mean  to  menace  me? 

Man.  Not  I; 

I  simply  tell  thee  peril  is  at  hand, 
And  would  preserve  thee. 

Abbot.  What  dost  mean? 

Man.  Look  there! 

What  dost  thou  see? 

Abbot.  Nothing. 

Man.  Look  there,  I  say, 

And  steadfastly; — now  tell  me  what  thou  seest. 

Abbot.  That  which  should  shake  me ;  but  I  fear  it  not. 
I  see  a  dusk  and  awful  figure  rise, 
Like  an  infernal  god,  from  out  the  earth ; 
His  face  wrapt  in  a  mantle,  and  his  form 
Robed  as  with  angry  clouds ;  he  stands  between 
Thyself  and  me — but  I  do  fear  him  not. 

Man.  Thou  hast  no  cause — he  shall  not  harm  thee — but 
His  sight  may  shock  thine  old  limbs  into  palsy, 
I  say  to  thee — Retire ! 

Abbot.  And  I  reply — 

Never — till  I  have  battled  with  this  fiend. 
What  doth  he  here? 

Man.  Why — ay — what  doth  he  here? 

I  did  not  send  for  him — he  is  unbidden. 

Abbot.  Alas,  lost  mortal !   what  with  guests  like  these 
Hast  thou  to  do  ?  I  tremble  for  thy  sake : 
Why  doth  he  gaze  on  thee,  and  thou  on  him  ? 
Ah!  he  unveils  his  aspect:  on  his  brow 
The  thunder-scars  are  graven;  from  his  eye 
Glares  forth  the  immortality  of  hell — 
Avaunt ! — 

Man.        Pronounce — what  is  thy  mission? 
Spirit.  Come ! 

Abbot.  What  art  thou,  unknown  being?  answer! — speak! 
Spirit.  The  genius  of  this  mortal.     Come!  'tis  time. 


BYRON.  195 


Man.  I  am  prepared  for  all  things,  but  deny 
The  power  which  summons  me.    Who  sent  thee  here? 

Spirit.  Thou 'It  know  anon — Come!  come! 

Man.  I  have  commanded 

Things  of  an  essence  greater  far  than  thine, 
And  striven  with  thy  masters.    Get  thee  hence ! 

Spirit.  Mortal!  thine  hour  is  come— Away!  I  say. 

Man.  I  knew,  and  know  my  hour  is  come,  but  not 
To  render  up  my  soul  to  such  as  thee : 
Away !  I  '11  die  as  I  have  lived — alone. 

Spirit.  Then  I  must  summon  up  my  brethren. — 

Rise !  [Other  Spirits  rise  up. 

Abbot.  A  vaunt,  ye  evil  ones !  A  vaunt,  I  say ; 
Ye  have  no  power  where  piety  hath  power, 
And  I  do  charge  thee  in  the  name — 

Spirit.  Old  man! 

We  know  ourselves,  our  mission,  and  thine  order : 
Waste  not  thy  holy  words  on  idle  uses ; 
It  were  in  vain :  this  man  is  forfeited. 
Once  more  I  summon  him — Away!  away! 

Man.  I  do  defy  ye,  though  I  feel  my  soul 
Is  ebbing  from  me,  yet  I  do  defy  ye. 
Nor  will  I  hence,  while  I  have  earthly  breath 
To  breathe  my  scorn  upon  ye— earthly  strength 
To  wrestle,  though  with  spirits ;  what  ye  take 
Shall  be  ta'en  limb  by  limb. 

Spirit.  Reluctant  mortal! 

Is  this  the  Magian  who  would  so  pervade 
The  world  invisible,  and  make  himself 
Almost  our  equal?  Can  it  be  that  thou 
Art  thus  in  love  with  life  ? — the  very  life 
Which  made  thee  wretched! 

Man.  Thou  false  fiend,  thou  liest ! 

My  life  is  in  its  last  hour ;  that  I  know, 
Nor  would  redeem  a  moment  of  that  hour. 
I  do  not  combat  against  death,  but  thee 
And  thy  surrounding  angels;  my  past  power 
Was  purchased  by  no  compact  with  thy  crew, 
But  by  superior  science — penance — daring — 
And  length  of  watching— strength  of  mind — and  skill 
In  knowledge  of  our  fathers — when  the  earth 
Saw  men  and  spirits  walking  side  by  side, 
And  gave  ye  no  supremacy :   I  stand 


196  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Upon  my  strength — I  do  defy — deny — 
Spurn  back — and  scorn  ye! 

Spirit.  But  thy  many  crimes 

Have  made  thee — 

Man.  What  are  they  to  such  as  thee? 

Must  crimes  be  punish'd  but  by  other  crimes, 
And  greater  criminals?    Back  to  thy  hell! 
Thou  hast  no  power  upon  me,  that  I  feel ; 
Thou  never  shalt  possess  me,  that  I  know ; 
What  I  have  done  is  done ;   I  bear  within 
A  torture  which  could  nothing  gain  from  thine: 
The  mind  which  is  immortal  makes  itself 
Requital  for  its  good  or  evil  thoughts — 
Is  its  own  origin  of  ill  and  end, 
And  its  own  place  and  time;  its  innate  sense, 
When  stripp'd  of  this  mortality,  derives 
No  color  from  the  fleeting  things  without ; 
But  is  absorb'd  in  sufferance  or  in  joy, 
Born  from  the  knowledge  of  its  own  desert. 
Thou  didst  not  tempt  me,  and  thou  couldst  not  tempt  me ; 
I  have  not  been  thy  dupe,  nor  am  thy  prey — 
But  was  my  own  destroyer,  and  will  be 
My  own  hereafter.     Back,  ye  baffled  fiends ! 
The  hand  of  death  is  on  me, — but  not  yours! 

[  The  Demons  disappear. 

Abbot.  Alas !   how  pale  thou  art — thy  lips  are  white ; 
And  thy  breast  heaves — and  in  thy  gasping  throat 
The  accents  rattle — Give  thy  prayers  to  Heaven ; 
Pray — albeit  but  in  thought — but  die  not  thus. 

Man.  'Tis  over — my  dull  eyes  can  fix  thee  not; 
But  all  things  swim  around  me,  and  the  earth 
Heaves  as  it  were  beneath  me.    Fare  thee  well — 
Give  me  thy  hand. 

Abbot.  Cold— cold — even  to  the  heart — 

But  yet  one  prayer — Alas  !   how  fares  it  with  thee  ? 
Man.  Old  man !   't  is  not  so  difficult  to  die. 

[Manfred  expires. 

Abbot.  He's  gone — his  soul  hath  ta'en  its  earthless  flight — 
Whither?    I  dread  to  think — but  he  is  gone.* 

"  Lord  Byron  had  nothing  dramatic  in  his  genius.     He  was,  in- 
deed, the  reverse  of  a  great  dramatist ;  the  very  antithesis  to  a  great 

*  Manfred  :  A  Dramatic  Poem. 


BYRON.  197 


dramatist.  All  his  characters — Harold  looking  back  on  the  western 
sky  from  which  his  country  and  the  sun  are  receding  together  ;  the 
Giaour,  standing  apart  in  the  gloom  of  the  side-aisle,  and  casting  a 
haggard  scowl  from  under  his  long  hood  at  the  crucifix  and  the 
censer ;  Conrad,  leaning  on  his  sword  by  the  watch-tower ;  Lara, 
smiling  on  the  dancers;  Alp,  gazing  steadily  on  the  fatal  cloud  as 
it  passes  before  the  moon ;  Manfred,  wandering  among  the  preci- 
pices of  Berne;  Azo,  on  the  judgment-seat;  Ugo,  at  the  bar;  Lam- 
bro,  frowning  on  the  siesta  of  his  daughter  and  Juan  ;  Cain,  present- 
ing his  unacceptable  offering — all  are  essentially  the  same.  The 
varieties  are  varieties  merely  of  age,  situation,  and  costume. 

"His  women,  like  his  men,  are  all  of  one  breed.  Haidee  is  a 
half-savage  and  girlish  Julia;  Julia  is  a  civilized  and  matronly 

Haidee.     Leila  is  a  wedded  Zuleika— Zuleika  a  virgin  Leila 

It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say  that  Lord  Byron  could  exhibit  only 
one  man  and  only  one  woman — a  man  proud,  moody,  cynical,  with 
defiance  on  his  brow,  and  misery  in  his  heart ;  a  scorner  of  his  kind, 
implacable  in  revenge,  yet  capable  of  deep  and  strong  affection  ; — 
a  woman  all  softness  and  gentleness,  loving  to  caress  and  to  be 
caressed,  but  capable  of  being  transformed  by  love  into  a  tigress. 
****** 

"  Never  had  any  writer  so  vast  a  command  of  the  whole  eloquence 
of  scorn,  misanthropy,  and  despair.  That  Marah  was  never  dry. 
No  art  could  sweeten,  no  draughts  could  exhaust,  its  perennial  waters 
of  bitterness.  Never  was  there  such  variety  in  monotony  as  that 
of  Byron.  From  maniac  laughter  to  piercing  lamentation,  there 
was  not  a  single  note  of  human  anguish  of  which  he  was  not  mas- 
ter. Year  after  year,  and  month  after  month,  he  continued  to  re- 
peat that  to  be  wretched  is  the  destiny  of  all ;  that  to  be  eminently 
wretched,  is  the  destiny  of  the  eminent;  that  all  the  desires  by 
which  we  are  cursed  lead  alike  to  misery ; — if  they  are  not  gratified, 
to  the  misery  of  disappointment ; — if  they  are  gratified,  to  the 
misery  of  satiety. 

********* 

"  That  his  poetry  will  undergo  (has  undergone)  a  severe  sifting  ; 
that  much  of  what  has  been  admired  by  his  contemporaries  will 
be  (has  been)  rejected  as  worthless,  we  have  little  doubt.  But  we 
have  as  little  doubt,  that,  after  the  closest  scrutiny,  there  will  still 
remain  much  that  can  only  perish  with  the  English  language."* 

*  Macaulay's  Miscellaneous  Writings,  pp.  127, 128. 
17* 


PERCY    BYSSHE    SHELLEY. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  was  born  August  4,  1792,  at  Field 
Place,  in  Sussex.  He  was  of  an  ancient  family,  being  descended 
from  the  Sackvilles,  a  name  not  unworthily  connected  with  the 
beginnings  of  Elizabethan  literature.  His  earlier  schooling  was 
obtained  at  Sion  House,  Brentford,  and  at  Eton.  The  most 
striking  incidents  of  his  career  at  the  latter  were  his  resistance 
to  the  time-honored  custom  of  fagging,  his  composition  at  the 
age  of  fifteen  of  two  melodramatic  romances,  and  his  falling  in 
love  with  his  cousin  Harriet  Grove. 

At  sixteen  Shelley  entered  the  University  of  Oxford.  Hia 
favorite  occupations  here  were  microscopic  studies,  chemistry, 
and  botany.  He  was  expelled  from  the  University  about  1811 
for  a  pamphlet  which  he  wrote  on  the  Necessity  of  Atheism; 
and  the  same  year  h^  forfeited  his  father's  favor  and  assistance 
by  marrying  the  pretty  daughter  of  a  coffee-house  keeper. 
About  three  years  later  he  separated  from  his  wife  for  reasons 
not  certainly  known,  and  eloped  with  Miss  Godwin,  daughter 
of  the  novelist,  to  Switzerland. 

In  1816,  when  his  wife  had  committed  suicide,  Shelley  mar- 
ried Miss  Godwin  and  returned  to  England.  The  two  children 
by  his  first  wife  were  taken  away  from  him  by  a  decision  of  the 
Lord  Chancellor,  on  the  ground  that  the  author  of  Queen  Mob — 
an  atheistical  poem  of  his  youth — was  not  the  proper  person  to 
have  the  custody  of  children.  His  subsequent  life  in  England 
is  represented  to  have  been  characterized  by  many  acts  of 
benevolence  to  the  poor  and  suffering  of  his  immediate  neigh- 
borhood, and  by  noble  displays  of  generosity  toward  his  un- 
fortunate friends. 

His  last  days  were  passed  in  Italy,  whither  he  had  gone  in 
search  of  a  climate  more  congenial  to  his  delicate  constitution 
than  that  of  England.  He  was  drowned,  July  8,  1822,  by  the 
capsizing  of  his  sail-boat,  while  on  her  return  from  Leghorn 

198 


SHELLEY.  199 


to  Lerici.  His  body  was  burned,  in  accordance  with  the  quar- 
antine laws  of  Tuscany,  and  his  ashes  were  deposited  by  his 
brother-poets,  Byron  and  Leigh  Hunt,  in  the  Protestant  burial- 
ground  at  Rome. 

Shelley's  productions  are  Queen  Mob ;  Alastor,or  the  Spirit  of 
Solitude;  Revolt -of  Islam,  Hellas,  Witch  of  Atlas, — fierce  invec- 
tives against  religion,  marriage,  kingcraft,  and  priestcraft; 
Prometheus  Unbound,  The  Cenci — dramatic  poems ;  a  narrative 
poem — Rosalind  and  Helen;  Adonis — a  lament  on  the  early 
death  of  Keats  ;  The  Sensitive  Plant,  a  number  of  minor  poems, 
and  several  volumes  of  Essays  and  Letters. 

"Is  not  this  the  life  of  a  genuine  poet?  Eyes  fixed  on  the 
splendid  apparitions  with  which  he  peopled  space,  he  went  through 
the  world  not  seeing  the  high  road,  stumbling  over  the  stones  of 
the  roadside.  That  knowledge  of  life  which  most  poets  have  in 
common  with  novelists,  he  had  not.  When  he  tried  to  create 
characters  and  events — in  Queen  Mob,  in  Alastor,  in  The  Revolt  of 
Islam,  in  Prometheus — he  only  produced  unsubstantial  phantoms. 
Once  only,  in  the  Cenci,  did  he  inspire  a  living  figure  worthy  of 
Webster  or  old  Ford;  but  in  some  sort  in  spite  of  himself,  and  be- 
cause in  it  the  sentiments  were  so  unheard  of  and  so  strained  that 
they  suited  superhuman  conceptions.  Elsewhere  his  world  is 
throughout  beyond  our  own.  The  laws  of  life  are  suspended  or 
transformed.  We  move  "in  this  world  between  heaven  and  earth, 
in  abstraction,  dreamland,  symbolism :  the  beings  float  in  it  like 
those  fantastic  figures  which  we  see  in  the  clouds,  and  which 
alternately  undulate  and  change  form  capriciously,  in  their  robes 
of  snow  and  gold. 

"For  souls  thus  constituted,  the  great  consolation  is  nature. 
They  are  too  fairly  sensitive  to  find  a  distraction  in  the  spectacle 
and  picture  o*f  human  passions.  Shelley  instinctively  avoided  it; 
this  sight  reopened  his  own  wounds.  He  was  happier  in  the 
woods,  at  the  sea-side,  in  contemplation  of  grand  landscapes.  The 
rocks,  clouds,  and  meadows,  which  to  ordinary  eyes  seem  dull  and 
insensible,  are,  to  a  wide  sympathy,  living  and  divine  existences, 
which  are  an  agreeable  change  from  men.  .  .  . 

"  Shelley  spent  most  of  his  life  in  the  open  air,  especially  in  his 
boat ;  first  011  the  Thames,  then  on  the  lake  of  Geneva,  then  on 
the  Arno,  and  in  the  Italian  waters.  He  loved  desert  and  solitary 
places,  where  man  enjoys  the  pleasure  of  believing  infinite  what  he 
sees,  infinite  as  his  soul.  This  love  was  a  deep  Germanic  instinct, 


200  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE, 

which,  allied  to  pagan  emotions,  produced  his  poetry,  pantheistic 
and  yet  pensive,  almost  Greek  and  yet  English,  in  which  fancy 
plays  like  a  simple,  dreamy  child,  with  the  splendid  skein  of  forms 
and  colors.  A  cloud,  a  plant,  a  sunrise, — these  are  his  characters : 
they  were  those  of  the  primitive  poets,  when  they  took  the  light- 
ning for  a  bird  of  fire,  and  the  clouds  for  the  flocks  of  heaven. 

"But  what  a  secret  ardor  beyond  these  splendid  images,  and 
how  we  feel  the  heat  of  the  furnace  beyond  the  colored  phantoms, 
which  it  sets  afloat  over  the  horizon  1  Has  any  one  since  Shak- 
speare  and  Spenser  lighted  on  such  tender  and  such  grand  ecsta- 
sies? Has  any  one  painted  so  magnificently  the  cloud  which 
watches  by  night  in  the  sky,  enveloping  in  its  net  the  swarm  of 
golden  bees,  the  stars?  Read  those  verses  on  the  garden,  in  which 
the  sensitive  plant  dreams.  Alas!  they  are  the  dreams  of  the 
poet,  and  the  happy  visions  which  floated  in  his  virgin  heart  up  to 
the  moment  when  it  opened  out  and  withered."* 

From  Queen  Mob,  published  shortly  after  his  expulsion  from 
college,  we  extract  the  following : 

The  Fairy  and  the  Soul  proceeded; 

The  silver  clouds  disparted; 
And  as  the  car  of  magic  they  ascended, 
Again  the  speechless  music  swelled, 
Again  the  courses  of  the  air, 
Unfurled  their  azure  pennons,  and  the  Queen, 
Shaking  the  beamy  reins, 
Bade  them  pursue  their  way. 

The  magic  car  moved  on, 
The  night  was  fair,  and  countless  stars 
Studded  heaven's  dark  blue  vault, — 

Just  o'er  the  eastern  wave 
Peeped  the  first  faint  smile  of  morn: — • 

The  magic  car  moved  on — 

From  the  celestial  hoofs 
The  atmosphere  in  flaming  sparkles  flew, 

And  where  the  burning  wheels 
Eddied  above  the  mountain's  loftiest  peak, 
Was  traced  a  line  of  lightning. 
Now  it  flew  far  above  a  rock, 

The  utmost  verge  of  earth, 
The  rival  of  the  Andes,  whose  dark  brow 

Lowered  o'er  the  silver  sea. 

*  Taine's  English  Literature,  Vol.  II. 


SHELLEY.  201 


Far,  far  below  the  chariot's  path, 

Calm  as  a  slumbering  babe, 

Tremendous  Ocean  lay. 
The  mirror  of  its  stillness  showed 

The  pale  and  waning  stars, 

The  chariot's  fiery  track, 

And  the  gray  light  of  morn 

Tinging  those  fleecy  clouds 

That  canopied  the  dawn. 
Seemed  it,  that  the  chariot's  way 
Lay  through  the  midst  of  an  immense  concave, 
Radiant  with  million  constellations,  tinged 

With  shades  of  infinite  color, 

And  semicircled  with  a  belt 

Flashing  incessant  meteors. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 

As  they  approached  their  goal, 
The  coursers  seemed  to  gather  speed ; 
The  sea  no  longer  was  distinguished ;   earth 
Appear'd  a  vast  and  shadowy  sphere; 

The  sun's  unclouded  orb 
Rolled  through  the  black  concave; 

Its  rays  of  rapid  light 
Parted  round  the  chariot's  swifter  course, 
And  fell,  like  ocean's  feathery  spray 

Dashed  from  the  boiling  surge 

Before  a  vessel's  prow. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 
Earth's  distant  orb  appeared 
The  smallest  light  that  twinkles  in  the  heaven; 
Whilst  round  the  chariot's  way 
Innumerable  systems  rolled, 
And  countless  spheres  diffused 
An  ever-varying  glory. 
It  was  a  sight  of  wonder:  some 
Were  horned  like  the  crescent  moon; 
Some  shed  a  mild  and  silver  beam 
Like  Hesperus  o'er  the  western  sea; 
Some  dashed  athwart  with  trains  of  flame, 
Like  worlds  to  death  and  ruin  driven; 
Some  shone  like  suns,  and  as  the  chariot  passed, 
Eclipsed  all  other  light. 

Spirit  of  Nature!  here! 
In  this  interminable  wilderness 


202  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Of  worlds,  at  whose  immensity 
Even  soaring  fancy  staggers, 
Here  is  thy  fitting  temple. 

Yet  not  the  lightest  leaf 
That  quivers  to  the  passing  breeze 

Is  less  instinct  with  thee : 

Yet  not  the  meanest  worm 

»  That  lurks  in  graves  and  fattens  on  the  dead, 
Less  shares  thy  eternal  breath. 

Spirit  of  Nature !   thou  ! 
Imperishable  as  this  scene, 

Here  is  thy  fitting  temple! 

As  a  specimen  of  sublime  and  intense,  as  well  as  graphic, 
composition,  we  cite,  from  Prometheus  Unbound,  written  in  1819, 
while  our  poet  was  roaming  through  Italy,  the  following  : 

ACT  I. 

Prometheus  discovered  bound  to  a  Precipice. 
Monarch  of  Gods  and  Daemons,  and  all  Spirits 
But  One,  who  throng  those  bright  and  rolling  worlds 
Which  Thou  and  I  alone  of  living  things 
Behold  with  sleepless  eyes!   regard  this  Earth 
Made  multitudinous  with  thy  slaves,  whom  thou 
Requitest  for  knee-worship,  prayer,  and  praise, 
And  toil,  and  hecatombs  of  broken .  hearts, 
With  fear  and  self-contempt  and  barren  hope. 
Whilst  me,  who  am  thy  foe,  eyeless  in  hate, 
Hast  thou  made  reign  and  triumph,  to  thy  scorn, 
O'er  mine  own  misery  and  thy  vain  revenge. 

Three  thousand  years  of  sleep-unsheltered  hours, 
And  moments  aye  divided  by  keen  pangs 
Till  they  seemed  years,  torture  and  solitude, 
Scorn  and  despair, — these  are  mine  empire. 
More  glorious  far  than  that  which  thou  survey est 
From  thine  unenvied  throne,  O  Mighty  God, 
Almighty,  had  I  deigned  to  share  the  shame 
Of  thine  ill  tyranny,  and  hung  not  here 
Nailed  to  this  wall  of  eagle-baffling  mountain, 
Black,  wintry,  dead,  unmeasured ;  without  herb, 
Insect,  or  beast,  or  shape,  or  sound  of  life. 
Ah,  me,  alas !   pain,  pain  ever,  for  ever ! 

No  change,  no  pause,  no  hope !     Yet  I  endure. 
I  ask  the  Earth,  have  not  the  mountains  felt? 


SHELLEY.  203 


I  ask  yon  Heaven,  the  all-beholding  Sun, 
Has  it  not  seen  ?    The  Sea,  in  storm  or  calm, 
Heaven's  ever-changing  Shadow,  spread  below, 
Have  its  deaf  waves  not  heard  my  agony? 
Ah,  me !  alas,  pain,  pain  ever,  for  ever ! 

The  crawling  glaciers  pierce  me  with  the  spears 
Of  their  moon-freezing  crystals;  the  bright  chains 
Eat  with  their  burning  cold  into  my  bones. 
Heaven's  winged  hound,  polluting  from  thy  lips 
His  beak  in  poison  not  his  own,  tears  up 
My  heart;  and  shapeless  sights  come  wandering  by, 
The  ghastly  people  of  the  realm  of  dream, 
Mocking  me :  and  the  Earthquake-fiends  are  charged 
To  wrench  the  rivets  from  my  quivering  wounds 
When  the  rocks  split  and  close  again  behind: 
While  from  their  loud  abysses  howling  throng 
The  genii  of  the  storm,  urging  the  rage 
Of  whirlwind,  and  afflict  me  with  keen  hail. 

And  yet  to  me  welcome  is  day  and  night. 
Whether  one  breaks  the  hoar  frost  of  the  morn, 
Or  starry,  dim,  and  slow,  the  other  climbs 
The  leaden-colored  east ;  for  then  they  lead 
The  wingless,  crawling  hours,  one  among  whom 
— As  some  dark  Priest  hales  the  reluctant  victim — 
Shall  drag  thee,  cruel  King,  to  kiss  the  blood 
From  these  pale  feet,  which  then  might  trample  thee 
If  they  disdained  not  such  a  prostrate  slave. 

Disdain !  Ah,  no !  I  pity  thee.    What  ruin 

Will  hunt  thee  undefended  through  the  wide  Heaven! 

How  will  thy  soul,  cloven  to  its  depths  with  terror, 

Gape  like  a  hell  within !    I  speak  in  grief, 

Not  exultation,  for  I  hate  no  more, 

As  then  ere  misery  made  me  wise.    The  curse 

Once  breathed  on  thee  I  would  recall.    Ye  Mountains, 

Whose  many-voiced  Echoes,  through  the  mist 

Of  cataracts,  flung  the  thunder  of  that  spell ! 

Ye  icy  Springs,  stagnant  with  wrinkling  frost, 

Which  vibrated  to  hear  me,  and  then  crept 

Shuddering  through  India !    Thou  serenest  Air, 

Through  which  the  Sun  walks  burning  without  beams! 

And  ye  swift  Whirlwinds,  who  on  poised  wings 

Hung  mute  and  moveless  o'er  yon  hushed  abyss, 

As  thunder,  louder  than  your  own,  made  rock 

The  orbed  world !    If  then  my  words  had  power, 


204  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Though  I  am  changed  so  that  aught  evil  wish 
Is  dead  within ;  although  no  memory  be 
Of  what  is  hate,  let  them  not  lose  it  now! 

Next  we  present,  as  a  sample  of  patriotic  rapture,  an  ex- 
tract from  Hellas,  written  in  1821. 

CHORUS. 

In  the  great  morning  of  the  world, 
The  spirit  of  God  with  might  unfurled 
The  flag  of  freedom  over  Chaos, 

And  all  its  banded  anarchs  fled, 
Like  vultures  frighted  from  Imaus, 

Before  an  earthquake's  tread. — 
So  from  Time's  tempestuous  dawn 
-Freedom's  splendor  burst  and  shone: — 
Thermopylae  and  Marathon 
Caught,  like  mountains  beacon-lighted, 

The  springing  Fire. — The  winged  glory 
On  Philippi  half-alighted, 

Like  an  eagle  on  a  promontory. 
Its  unwearied  wings  could  fan 
The  quenchless  ashes  of  Milan. 
From  age  to  age,  from  man  to  man 

It  lived;  and  lit  from  land  to  land 

Florence,  Albion,  Switzerland. 
Then  night  fell ;  and,  as  from  night, 
Re-assuniing  fiery  flight, 
From  the  West  swift  Freedom  came, 

Against  the  course  of  heaven  and  doom, 
A  second  sun  arrayed  in  flame, 

To  burn,  to  kindle,  to  illume. 

From  far  Atlantis  its  young  beams 
Chased  the  shadows  and  the  dreams. 
France,  with  all  her  sanguine  steams, 

Hid,  but  quenched  it  not ;  again 

Through  clouds  its  shafts  of  glory  reign 

From  utmost  Germany  to  Spain. 
As  an  eagle  fed  with  morning 
Scorns  the  embattled  tempest's  warning, 
When  she  seeks  her  aerie  hanging 

In  the  mountain-cedar's  hair, 
And  her  brood  expect  the  clanging 

Of  her  wings  through  the  wild  air, 


SHELLEY.  205 


Sick  with  famine; — Freedom,  so 
To  what  of  Greece  remaineth  now 
Return ;  her  hoary  ruins  glow 
Like  orient  mountains  lost  in  day; 

Beneath  the  safety  of  her  wings 
Her  renovated  nurslings  play, 

And  in  the  naked  lightnings 
Of  truth  they  purge  their  dazzled  eyes. 
Let  Freedom  leave,  where'er  she  flies, 
A  Desert,  or  a  Paradise ; 

Let  the  beautiful  and  the  brave 

Share  her  glory,  or  a  grave. 

Of  the  poems  written  in  1820,  perhaps  the  most  beautiful, 
certainly  the  most  popular,  is 

TO  A  SKYLARK. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit, 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher, 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run  ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 
18 


206  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not: 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower: 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the  view 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy -winged  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain  awakened  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine; 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wTine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 


SHELLEY.  207 


Chorus  hymeneal,  * 

Or  triumphal  chant 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?  what  ignorance  of  pain? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee: 
Thou  lovest;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not: 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  thy  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 


208  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


We  close  with  the  following  fragment  from  Epipsychidion,  a 
poem  written  in  1821. 

There  was  a  Being  whom  my  spirit  oft 

Met  on  its  visioned  wanderings,  far  aloft, 

In  the  clear  golden  prime  of  my  youth's  dawn, 

Upon  the  fairy  isles  of  sunny  lawn, 

Amid  the  enchanted  mountains,  and  the  caves 

Of  divine  sleep,  and  on  the  air-like  waves 

Of  wonder-level  dream,  whose  tremulous  floor 

Paved  her  light  steps; — on  an  imagined  shore, 

Under  the  gray  beak  of  some  promontory 

She  met  me,  robed  in  such  exceeding  glory, 

That  I  beheld  her  not.     In  solitudes 

Her  voice  came  to  me  through  the  whispering  woods, 

And  from  the  fountains,  and  the  odors  deep 

Of  flowers,  which,  like  lips  murmuring  in  their  sleep 

Of  the  sweet  kisses  which  had  lulled  them  there, 

Breathed  but  of  her  to  the  enamored  air ; 

And  from  the  breezes  whether  low  or  loud, 

And  from  the  rain  of  every  passing  cloud, 

And  from  the  singing  of  the  summer-birds, 

And  from  all.  sounds,  all  silence.     In  the  words 

Of  antique  verse  and  high  romance, — in  form, 

Sound,  color — in  whatever  checks  that  storm 

Which  with  the  shattered  present  chokes  the  past; 

And  in  that  best  philosophy,  whose  taste 

Makes  this  cold  common  hell,  our  life,  a  doom 

As  glorious  as  a  fiery  martyrdom ; 

Her  Spirit  was  the  harmony  of  truth. — 

Then,  from  the  caverns  of  my  dreamy  youth 
I  sprang,  as  one  sandalled  with  plumes  of  fire, 
And  towards  the  loadstar  of  my  one  desire 
I  flitted,  like  a  dizzy  moth,  whose  flight 
Is  as  a  dead  leafs  in  the  owlet  light, 
When  it  would  seek  in  Hesper's  setting  sphere 
A  radiant  death,  a  fiery  sepulchre, 
As  if  it  were  a  lamp  of  earthly  flame. — 
But  she,  whom  prayers  or  tears  then  could  not  tame, 
Past,  like  a  God  throned  on  a  winged  planet, 
Whose  burning  plumes  to  tenfold  swiftness  fan  it, 
Into  the  dreary  cone  of  our  life's  shade ; 
And  as  a  man  with  mighty  loss  dismayed, 
I  would  have  followed,  though  the  grave  between 
Yawned  like  a  gulf  whose  spectres  are  unseen; 


SHELLEY.  209 


When  a  voice  said : — "  O  Thou  of  hearts  the  weakest, 
The  phantom  is  beside  thee  whom  thou  seekest." 
Then  I — "Where?"  the  world's  echo  answered  "where!" 
And  in  that  silence,  and  in  my  despair, 
I  questioned  every  tongueless  wind  that  flew 
Over  my  tower  of  mourning,  if  it  knew 
Whither  'twas  fled,  this  soul  out  of  my  soul; 
And  murmured  names  and  spells  which  have  control 
Over  the  sightless  tyrants  of  our  fate ; 
But  neither  prayer  nor  verse  could  dissipate 
The  night  which  closed  on  her;  nor  uncreate 
That  world  within  this  Chaos,  mine  and  me, 
Of  which  she  was  the  veiled  Divinity. 
18*  O 


GEORGE   ELIOT. 


THE  owner  of  this  nom  de  plume  was  Mary  Ann  Evans.  She 
was  born  November  22,  1820,  at  Griff,  near  Nuneaton,  in  War- 
wickshire. From  childhood  she  evinced  unusual  strength  and 
activity  of  mind,  and  while  still  youthful  had  acquired  a  very 
fair  knowledge  of  Latin,  Greek,  French,  German,  Italian,  and 
Hebrew.  She  also  attained  considerable  proficiency  in  instru- 
mental music,  becoming  an  accomplished  pianist.  Until  about 
twenty  she  resided  in  her  native  place  ;  and  from  among  its  quiet 
scenes  and  prosaic  happenings  culled  not  a  few  of  the  characters 
and  incidents  that  found  expression  in  her  earlier  fictions. 
Those  of  her  later  writings  are,  doubtless,  in  a  large  measure  to 
be  attributed  to  a  visit  to  the  continent,  which  she  undertook  in 
1849,  and  also  to  frequent  subsequent  visits. 

For  several  years  before  Miss  Evans  became  known  as  a  novel- 
ist, she  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  various  London  periodi- 
cals ;  and  such  were  the  vigor  and  ripeness  of  her  articles,  that 
her  mask  of  "  George  Eliot "  very  effectually  concealed  her  sex. 
Her  merits  as  a  novelist  were  first  decidedly  demonstrated  in 
Adam  Bede,  published  in  1858.  The  works  that  have  since  not 
only  sustained,  but  also  heightened,  the  lustre  of  that  first  effort 
are  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life  (1859),  The  Mill  on  the  Floss  (1860), 
/Silas  Mdrner  (1861),  Eomola  (1863),  Felix  Holt  (1866),  The 
Spanish  Gypsy — a  poem  (1868),  Agatha — a  poem  (1869),  Arm- 
gart :  a  Dramatic  Poem  (1871),  Middlemarch  (1872),  Legend  of 
Jubal — a  poem  (1874),  Daniel  Deronda  (1876),  and  Impressions 
of  Theophrasius  Such  (1879). 

In  1853  Miss  Evans  agreed  to  an  unconventional  union  with 
George  H.  Lewes,  a  litterateur  of  some  note.  This  lasted  until 
the  latter's  death  in  1878.  In  May,  1880,  Mrs.  Lewes  married 
Mr.  J.  W.  Cross  ;  but  after  an  interval  of  only  six  months,  passed 
in  continental  travel,  died  suddenly  on  December  22,  1880. 

210 


ELIOT.  211 


From  Adam  Bede  we  extract  the  following : — 

This  little  walk  was  a  rest  to  Adam,  and  he  was  unconsciously  under 
the  charm  of  the  moment.  It  was  summer  morning  in  his  heart,  and  he 
saw  Hetty  in  the  sunshine — a  sunshine  without  glare,  with  slanting  rays 
that  tremble  between  the  delicate  shadows  of  the  leaves.  He  thought, 
yesterday,  when  he  put  out  his  hand  to  her  as  they  came  out  of  church, 
that  there  was  a  touch  of  melancholy  kindness  in  her  face  such  as  he  had 
not  seen  before,  and  he  took  it  as  a  sign  that  she  had  some  sympathy  with 
his  family  trouble^  Poor  fellow!  that  touch  of  melancholy  came  from 
quite  another  source ;  but  how  was  he  to  know  ?  We  look  at  the  one  little 
woman's  face  we  love,  as  we  look  at  the  face  of  our  mother  earth,  and  see 
all  sorts  of  answers  to  our  own  yearnings. 

It  was  impossible  for  Adam  not  to  feel  that  what  had  happened  in  the 
last  week  had  brought  the  prospect  of  marriage  nearer  to  him.  Hitherto 
he  had  felt  keenly  the  danger  that  some  other  man  might  step  in  and  get 
possession  of  Hetty's  heart  and  hand,  while  he  himself  was  still  in  a  position 
that  made  him  shrink  from  asking  her  to  accept  him.  Even  if  he  had  had 
a  strong  hope  that  she  was  fond  of  him — and  his  hope  was  far  from  being 
strong— he  had  been  too  heavily  burdened  with  other  claims  to  provide  a 
home  for  himself  and  Hetty — a  home  such  as  he  could  expect  her  to  be 
content  with  after  the  comfort  and  plenty  of  a  farm. 

Like  all  strong  natures,  Adam  had  confidence  in  his  ability  to  achieve 
something  in  the  future ;  he  felt  sure  he  should  some  day,  if  he  lived,  be 
able  to  maintain  a  family  and  make  a  good  broad  path  for  himself;  but  he 
had  too  cool  a  head  not  to  estimate  to  the  full  the  obstacles  that  were  to 
be  overcome.  And  the  time  would  be  so  long!  And  there  was  Hetty,  like 
a  bright-cheeked  apple  hanging  over  the  orchard  wall,  in  sight  of  every 
body,  and  every  body  must  long  for  her!  To  be  sure,  if  she  loved  him  very 
much,  she  would  be  content  to  wait  for  him;  but  did  she  love  him?  His 
hopes  had  never  risen  so  high  that  he  had  dared  to  ask  her.  He  was  clear- 
sighted enough  to  be  aware  that  her  uncle  and  aunt  would  have  looked 
kindly  on  his  suit,  and  indeed  without  this  encouragement  he  would  never 
have  persevered  in  going  to  the  Farm  :  but  it  was  impossible  to  come  to 
any  but  fluctuating  conclusions  about  Hetty's  feelings.  She  was  like  a 
kitten,  and  had  the  same  distractingly  pretty  looks,  that  meant  nothing, 
for  every  body  that  came  near  her. 

•&•*  *-£#-X--fc##-X--&* 

But  it  was  Adam's  strength,  not  its  correlatine  hardness,  that  influenced 
his  meditations  this  morning.  He  had  long  made  up  his  mind  that  it 
would  be  wrong  as  well  as  foolish  for  him  to  marry  a  blooming  young  girl, 
so  long  as  he  had  no  other  prospect  than  that  of  growing  poverty  with  a 
growing  family.  And  his  savings  had  been  so  constantly  drawn  upon 
(besides  the  terrible  sweep  of  paying  for  Seth's  substitute  in  the  militia), 
that  he  ha*d  not  enough  money  beforehand  to  furnish  even  a  small  cottage, 
and  keep  something  in  reserve  against  a  rainy  day.  He  had  good  hope 
*that  he  should  be  "firmer  on  his  legs"  by-and-by;  but  he  could  not  be 
satisfied* with  a  vague  confidence  in  his  arm  and  brain;  he  must  have 
definite  plans,  and  set  about  them  at  once. 

The  partnership  with  Jonathan  Burge  was  not  to  be  thought  of  at  present 
— there  were  things  implicitly  tacked  to  it  that  he  could  not  accept ;  but 
Adam  thought  that  he  and  Seth  might  carry  on  a  little  business  for  them- 


212  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITPIRATURE. 

selves  in  addition  to  their  journeyman's  work,  by  buying  a  small  stock  of 
superior  wood  and  making  articles  of  household  furniture,  for  which  Adam 
had  no  end  of  contrivances.  Seth  might  gain  more  by  working  at  separate 
jobs  under  Adam's  direction  than  by  his  journeyman's  work ;  and  Adam, 
in  his  over-hours,  could  do  all  the  "nice"  work,  that  required  peculiar 
skill.  The  money  gained  in  this  way,  with  the  good  wages  he  received  as 
foreman,  would  soon  enable  them  to  get  beforehand  with  the  world,  so 
sparingly  as  they  would  all  live  now. 

No  sooner  had  this  little  plan  shaped  itself  in  his  mind  than  he  began 
to  be  busy  with  exact  calculations  about  the  wood  to  be  bought,  and  the 
particular  article  of  furniture  that  should  be  undertaken  first — a  kitchen 
cupboard  of  his  own  contrivance,  with  such  an  ingenious  arrangement  of 
sliding-doors  and  bolts,  such  convenient  nooks  for  stowing  household 
provender,  and  such  a  symmetrical  result  to  the  eye,  that  every  good 
housewife  would  be  in  rapture  with  it,  and  fall  through  all  the  gradation 
of  melancholy  longing  till  her  husband  promised  to  buy  it  for  her.  Adam 
pictured  to  himself  Mrs.  Poyser  examining  it  with  her  keen  eye,  and  try- 
ing in  vain  to  find  out  a  deficiency;  and,  of  course,  close  to  Mrs.  Poyser 
stood  Hetty,  and  Adam  was  again  beguiled  from  calculations  and  con- 
trivances into  dreams  and  hopes.  Yes,  he  would  go  and  see  her  this 
evening— it  was  so  long  since  he  had  been  at  the  Hall  Farm.  He  would 
have  liked  to  go  to  the  night-school,  to  see  why  Bartle  Massey  had  not 
been  at  church  yesterday,  for  he  feared  his  old  friend  was  ill ;  but,  unless 
he  could  manage  both  visits,  this  last  must  be  put  off  till  to-morrow — the 
desire  to  be  near  Hetty,  and  to  speak  to  her  again,  was  too  strong. 

As  he  made  up  his  mind  to  this,  he  was  coming  very  near  to  the  end  of 
his  walk,  within  the  sound  of  the  hammers  at  work  on  the  refitting  of  the 
old  house.  The  sound  of  tools  to  a  clever  workman  who  loves  his  work, 
is  like  the  tentative  sounds  of  the  orchestra  to  the  violinist  who  has  to  bear 
his  part  in  the  overture;  the  strong  fibres  begin  their  accustomed  thrill, 
and  what  was  a  moment  before  joy,  vexation,  or  ambition,  begins  its  change 
into  energy.  All  passion  becomes  strength  when  it  has  an  outlet  from  the 
narrow  limits  of  our  personal  lot  in  the  labor  of  our  right  arm,  the  cunning 
of  our  right  hand,  or  the  still,  creative  activity  of  our  thought. 

Look  at  Adam  through  the  rest  of  the  day,  as  he  stands  on  the  scaffolding 
with  the  two- feet  ruler  in  his  hand,  whistling  low  while  he  considers  how 
a  difficulty  about  a  floor-joist  or  a  window-frame  is  to  be  overcome;  or  as 
he  pushes  one  of  the  younger  workmen  aside,  and  takes  his  place  in  up- 
heaving a  weight  of  timber,  saying,  "Let  alone,  lad !  thee'st  got  too  much 
gristle  i'  thy  bones  yet;"  or  as  he  fixes  his  keen  black  eyes  on  the  motions 
of  a  workman  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  and  warns  him  that  his  dis- 
tances are  not  right.  Look  at  this  broad-shouldered  man  with  the  bare 
muscular  arms,  and  the  thick,  firm  black  hair,  tossed  about  like  trodden 
meadow-grass  whenever  he  takes  off  his  paper  cap,  and  with  the  strong 
baritone  voice  bursting  every  now  and  then  into  loud  and  solemn  psalm- 
tunes,  as  if  seeking  some  outlet  for  superfluous  strength,  yet  presently  check- 
ing himself,  apparently  crossed  with  some  thought  which  jars  with  the 
singing. 

Perhaps,  if  you  had  been  already  in  the  secret,  you  might  not  have 
guessed  what  sad  memories,  what  warm  affection,  what  tender  fluttering 
hopes,  had  their  home  in  this  athletic  body  with  the  broken  finger-nails  — 
in  this  rough  man,  who  knew  no  better  lyrics  than  he  could  find  in  the  Old 
and  New  Version  and  an  occasional  hymn ;  who  knew  the  smallest  possible 


ELIOT.  213 


amount  of  profane  history;  and  for  whom  the  motion  and  shape  of  the 
earth,  the  course  of  the  sun,  and  the  changes  of  the  seasons,  lay  in  the 
region  of  mystery,  just  made  visible  by  fragmentary  knowledge. 

It  had  cost  Adam  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and  work  in  over-hours,  to 
know  what  he  knew  over  and  above  the  secrets  of  his  handicraft,  and  that 
acquaintance  with  mechanics  and  figures,  and  the  nature  of  the  materials 
he  worked  with,  which  was  made  easy  to  him  by  inborn  inherited  faculty 
— to  get  the  mastery  of  his  pen,  and  write  a  plain  hand,  to  spell  without 
anv  other  mistakes  than  must  in  fairness  be  attributed  to  the  unreasonable 
character  of  orthography  rather  than  to  any  deficiency  in  the  speller,  and, 
morever,  to  learn  his  musical  notes  and  part-ranging.  Besides  all  this,  he 
had  read  his  Bible,  including  the  apocryphal  books;  "Poor  Richard's 


Massey  had  lent  him.  He  might  have  had  many  more  books  from  Bartle 
Massey,  but  he  had  no  time  for  reading  "the  common  print,"  as  Lisbeth 
called  it,  so  busy  as  he  was  with  figures  in  all  the  leisure  moments  which 
he  did  not  fill  up  with  extra  carpentry. 

Our  remaining  extract  is  from  Middlemarch. 

Mrs.  Garth,  hearing  Caleb  enter  the  passage  about  tea-time,  opened  the 
parlor-door  and  said,  "There  you  are,  Caleb.  Have  you  had  your  dinner  ? " 
(Mr.  Garth's  meals  were  much  subordinated  to  "business.") 

"Oh,  yes,  a  good  dinner — cold  mutton  and  I  don't  know  what.  Where 
is  Mary?" 

"  In  the  garden  with  Letty,  I  think." 

"Fred  is  not  come  yet?" 

"No.  Are  you  going  out  again  without  taking  tea,  Caleb?"  said  Mrs. 
Garth,  seeing  that  her  absent-minded  husband  was  putting  on  again  the  hat 
which  he  had  just  taken  off. 

"No,  no;  I'm  only  going  to  Mary  a  minute." 

Mary  was  in  a  grassy  corner  of  the  garden,  where  there  was  a  swing  loftily 
hung  between  two  pear-trees.  She  had  a  pink  kerchief  tied  over  her  head, 
making  a  little  poke  to  shade  her  eyes  from  the  level  sunbeams,  while  she 
was  giving  a  glorious  swing  to  Letty,  who  laughed  and  screamed  wildly. 
Seeing  her  father,  Mary  left  the  swing  and  went  to  meet  him,  pushing  back 
the  pink  kerchief  and  smiling  afar  ofl'at  him  with  the  involuntary  smile  of 
loving  pleasure. 

"  I  came  to  look  for  you,  Mary,"  said  Mr.  Garth.  "  Let  us  walk  about  a 
bit." 

Mary  knew  quite  well  that  her  father  had  something  particular  to  say. 
His  eyebrows  made  their  pathetic  angle,  and  there  was  a  tender  gravity 
in  his  voice:  these  things  had  been  signs  to  her  when  she  was  Letty's  age. 
She  put  her  arm  within  his,  and  they  turned  by  the  row  of  nut-trees. 

"It  will  be  a  sad  while  before  you  can  be  married,  Mary,"  said  her 
father,  not  looking  at  her,  but  at  the  end  of  the  stick  which  he  held  in  his 
other  hand. 

"Not  a  sad^vhile,  father — I  mean  to  be  merry,"  said  M*ary,  laughingly. 
"  I  have  been  single  and  merry  for  four  and  twenty  years  and  more.  I  sup- 


214  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

pose  it  will  not  be  quite  as  long  again  as  that."  Then,  after  a  little  pause, 
she  said,  more  gravely,  bending  her  face  before  her  father's,  <;  If  you  are 
contented  with  Fred?"  Caleb  screwed  np  his  mouth  and  turned  his  head 
aside  wisely. 

"  Now,  father,  you  did  praise  him  last  Wednesday.  You  said  he  had  an 
uncommon  notion  of  stock,  and  a  good  eye  for  things." 

"Did  I?"  said  Caleb,  rather  slyly. 

"Yes;  I  put  it  all  down,  and  the  date,  Anno  Domini,  and  every  thing," 
said  Mary.  "  You  like  things  to  be  neatly  booked.  And  then  his  behavior 
to  you,  father,  is  really  good — he  has  a  deep  respect  for  you ;  and  it  is  im- 
possible to  have  a  better  temper  than  Fred  has." 

"Ay,  ay — you  want  to  coax  me  into  thinking  him  a  fine  match." 

"No,  indeed,  father.     I  don't  love  him  because  he  is  a  fine  match." 

"What  for,  then?" 

"Oh,  dear,  because  I  have  always  loved  him.  I  should  never  like  scold- 
ing any  one  else  so  well ;  and  that  "is  a  point  to  be  thought  of  in  a  husband." 

"Your  mind  is  quite  settled,  then,  Mary?"  said  Caleb,  returning  to  his 
first  tone.  "There's  no  other  wish  come  into  it  since  things  have  been 
going  on  as  they  have  been  of  late  ?  (Caleb  meant  a  great  deal  in  that  vague 
phrase ;)  because,  better  late  than  never.  A  woman  must  n't  force  her  heart 
— she'll  do  a  man  no  good  by  that." 

"  My  feelings  have  not  changed,  father,"  said  Mary,  calmly.  "  I  shall  be 
constant  to  Fred  as  long  as.  he  is  constant  to  me.  I  don't  think  either  of  us 
could  spare  the  other,  or  like  any  one  else  better,  however  much  we  might 
admire  them.  It  would  make  too  great  a  difference  to  us — like  seeing  all 
the  old  places  altered,  and  changing  the  name  for  every  thing.  We  must 
wait  for  each  other  a  long  while ;  but  Fred  knows  that." 

Instead  of  speaking  immediately,  Caleb  stood  still  and  screwed  his  stick 
on  the  grassy  walk.  Then  he  said,  with  emotion  in  his  voice,  "  Well,  I've 
got  a  bit  of  news.  What  do  you  think  of  Fred  going  to  live  at  Stone  Court, 
and  managing  the  land  there?" 

"How  can  that  ever  be,  father?"  said  Mary,  wonderingly. 

"He  would  manage  it  for-his  aunt  Bulstrode.  The  poor  woman  has 
been  to  me  begging  and  praying.  She  wants  to  do  the  lad  good,  and  it 
might  be  a  fine  thing  for  him.  With  saving,  he  might  gradually  buy  the 
stock,  and  he  has  a  turn  for  farming." 

"  Oh,  Fred  would  be  so  happy !     It  is  too  good  to  believe." 

"Ah!  but  mind  you,"  said  Caleb,  turning  his  head  warningly,  "I  must 
take  it  on  my  shoulders,  and  be  responsible,  and  see  after  everything — and 
that  will  grieve  your  mother  a  bit,  though  she  mayn't  say  so.  Fred  had 
need  be  careful." 

"Perhaps  it  is  too  much,  father,"  said  Mary,  checked  in  her  joy.  "There 
would  be  no  happiness  in  bringing  you  any  fresh  trouble." 

"Nay,  nay — work  is  my  delight,  child,  when  it  doesn't  vex  your  mother. 
And  then,  if  you  and  Fred  get  married,"  here  Caleb's  voice  shook  just  per- 
ceptibly, "he'll  be  steady  and  saving  ;  and  you've  got  your  mother's  cley- 
erness,"and  mine  too,  in  a  woman's  sort  of  way;  and  you'll  keep  him  in 
order.  He'll  be  coming  by-and-by,  so  I  wanted  to  tell  you  first,  because  I 
think  you'd  like  to  tell  him  by  yourselves.  After  that,  I  could  talk  it  well 
over  with  him,  and  we  could  go  into  business  and  the  nature  of  things." 


ELIOT.  215 


"Oh,  you  dear,  good  father !  "  cried  Mary,  putting  her  hands  round  her 
father's  neck,  while  lie  bent  his  head  placidly,  willing  to  be  caressed.  "  I 
wonder  if  any  other  girl  thinks  her  father  the  best  man  in  the  world!" 

"Nonsense,  child;  you'll  think  your  husband  better." 

"Impossible,"  said  Mary,  relapsing  into  her  usual  tone;  "husbands  are 
an  inferior  class  of  men,  who  require  keeping  in  good  order." 

When  they  were  entering  the  house  with  Letty,  who  had  run  to  join 
them,  Mary  saw  Fred  at  the  orchard-gate,  and  went  to  meet  him. 

"  What  fine  clothes  you  wear,  you  extravagant  youth ! "  said  Mary,  as 
Fred  stood  still  and  raised  his  hat  to  her  with  playful  formality.  "You  are 
not  learning  economy." 

"Now  that  is  too  bad,  Mary,"  said  Fred.  "Just  look  at  the  edges  of 
these  coat-cuffs !  It  is  only  by  dint  of  good  brushing  that  I  look  respectable. 
I  am  saving  up  three  suits — one  for  a  wedding-suit." 

"How  very  droll  you  will  look!  —  like  a  gentleman  in  an  old-fashioned 
book." 

"Oh  no,  they  will  keep  two  years." 

"Two  years!  be  reasonable,  Fred,"  said  Mary,  turning  to  walk.  "Don't 
encourage  flattering  expectations." 

"  Why  not?  One  lives  on  them  better  than  on  unflattering  ones.  If  we 
can't  be  married  in  two  years,  the  truth  will  be  quite  bad  enough  when  it 
conies." 

"I  have  heard  a  story  of  a  young  gentleman  who  once  encouraged  flat- 
tering expectations,  and  they  did  him  harm." 

"Mary,  if  you've  got  something  discouraging  to  tell  me,  I  shall  bolt.  I 
shall  go  into  the  house  to  Mr.  Garth.  I  'm  out  of  spirits.  My  father  is  so 
cut  up  —  home  is  not  like  itself.  I  can't  bear  any  more  bad  news." 

"Should  you  call  it  bad  news  to  be  told  that  you  were  to  live  at  Stone 
Court,  and  manage  the  farm,  and  be  remarkably  prudent,  and  save  money 
every  year  till  all  the  stock  and  furniture  were  your  own,  and  you  were  a 
distinguished  agricultural  character,  as  Mr.  Borthrop  Trumbull  says — 
rather  stout,  I  fear,  and  with  the  Greek  and  Latin  sadly  weather-worn?" 

"You  don't  mean  anything  except  nonsense,  Mary?"  said  Fred,  color- 
ing slightly,  nevertheless. 

"That  is  what  my  father  has  just  told  me  of  as  what  may  happen,  and 
lie  never  talks  nonsense,"  said  Mary,  looking  up  at  Fred  now,  while  he 
grasped  her  hand  as  they  walked  till  it  rather  hurt  her;  but  she  would 
not  complain. 

"Oh,  I  could  be  a  tremendously  good  fellow  then,  Mary,  and  we  could 
be  married  directly." 

"  Not  so  fast,  sir ;  how  do  you  know  that  I  would  not  rather  defer  our  mar- 
riage for  some  years?  That  would  leave  you  time  to  misbehave,  and  then, 
if  I  liked  some  one  else  better,  I  should  have  an  excuse  for  jilting  you." 

"Pray  don't  joke,  Mary,"  said  Fred,  with  strong  feeling.  "Tell  me 
seriously  that  all  this  is  true,  and  that  you  are  happy  because  of  it — 
because  you  love  me  best." 

"  It  is  all  true,  Fred,  and  I  am  happy  because  of  it — because  I  love  you 
best,"  said  Mary,  in  a  tone  of  obedient  recitation. 

They  lingered  on  the  door-step  under  the  steep-roofed  porch,  and  Fred 


216  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITER  AT  GEE. 

almost  in  a  whisper  said,  "  When  we  were  first  engaged,  with  the  umbrella, 
ring,  Mary,  you  used  to — " 

The  spirit  of  joy  began  to  laugh  more  decidedly  in  Mary's  eyes,  but  the 
fatal  Ben  came  running  to  the  door  with  Brownie  yapping  behind  him, 
and,  bouncing  against  them,  said,  "Fred  and  Mary!  are  you  ever  coming 
in  ? — or  may  I  eat  your  cake  ?  " 

"The  sphere  which  George  Eliot  has  made  specially  her  own  is 
that  quiet  English  country  life  which  she  knew  in  early  youth. 
Nobody  has  approached  her  in  the  power  of  seizing  its  essential 
characteristics  and  exhibiting  its  real  charm.  She  possesses  a  vein 
of  humor,  of  which  it  is  little  to  say  that  it  is  incomparably  superior, 
in  depth  if  not  in  delicacy,  to  that  of  any  feminine  writer.  It  is 
the  humor  of  a  calm,  contemplative  mind,  familiar  with  wide  fields 
of  knowledge,  and  capable  of  observing  the  little  dramas  of  rustic 
life  from  a  higher  standing-point.  .  .  .  We  are  on  a  petty  stage, 
but  not  in  a  stifling  atmosphere,  and  we  are  not  called  upon  to 
accept  the  prejudices  of  the  actors  or  to  be  angry  with  them,  but 
simply  to  understand  and  to  be  tolerant. 

"The  so-called  masculine  quality  in  George  Eliot — her  wide  and 
calm  intelligence — was  certainly  combined  with  a  thoroughly  fem- 
inine nature ;  and  the  more  one  reads  her  books  and  notes  her  real 
triumphs,  the  more  strongly  this  comes  out.  .  .  .  Her  stories  are 
pre-eminently  studies  of  character  in  this  sense,  that  her  main  and 
conscious  purpose  is  to  set  before  us  the  living  beings  in  what  may 
be  called,  with  due  apology,  their  statical  relations — to  show  them 
in  their  quiet  and  normal  state,  not  under  the  stress  of  exceptional 
events."  * 

"  No  preacher  of  our  day  has  done  so  much  to  mold  the  moral 
aspirations  of  her  contemporaries  as  has  she.  She  has  a  voice  to 
reach  the  many  and  words  to  arrest  the  few.  She  afforded  the 
liveliest  entertainment  to  the  ordinary  novel-reader  and  the  deep- 
est speculation  to  many  who  never  looked  into  another  novel. 
Her  influence  was  as  wide  as  it  was  profound."  f 

*  Cornhill  Magazine,  March,  1881. 

t  Contemporary  Review,  February,  1881. 


EDWARD   BULWER-LYTTON. 


EDWARD  GEORGE  BULWER,  LORD  LYTTON,  was  born  at  Heydon 
Hall,  in  Norfolk,  in  May,  1805.  From,  under  the  care  of  a  fond 
and  cultured  mother  he  went,  at  an  early  age,"  to  Trinity  Hall, 
Cambridge,  where,  in  1825,  he  carried  off  the  Chancellor's  Prize 
Medal  for  English  Versification  by  his  poem,  Sculpture.  The 
next  year  he  graduated. 

With  Bulwer,  composition  was  begun  as  a  pastime  of  youth, 
an  Oriental  tale,  called  Ismael,  having  been  written  as  early  as 
1820,  and,  not  to  speak  of  numerous  minor  attempts,  both  in 
prose  and  in  verse,  Weeds  and  Wild  Flowers,  in  1826. 

Between  1828  and  1832  appeared  such  works  as  Pelham, 
The  Disowned,  Devereux,  Paul  Clifford,  The  /Siamese  Twins — 
a  satirical  poem, — and  Eugene  Aram.  These,  together  with 
Ernest  Maltravers,  and  its  complement,  Alice,  or  the  Mysteries, 
which  succeeded  at  short  intervals,  constitute  the  first  and  most 
objectionable  class  of  Bulwer 's  novels.  They  abound  in  most 
extravagant  fancies  set  forth  in  most  extravagant  language,  and 
they  deal  largely  with  immoral  and  vicious  phases  of  life  and 
conduct. 

Purer  and  worthier  themes,  and  a  chaster  and  more  scholarly 
treatment,  have  characterized  the  numerous  volumes  which  have 
since  swarmed,  as  it  were,  from  his  teeming  brain,  such,  for 
instance,  as  The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii  (1834),  Eienzi  (1835), 
The  Last  of  the  Barons  (1843),  The  New  Timon — a  poetical 
romance  of  London  (1846),  The  Caxtons  (1850),  My  Novel 
(1851),  What  will  He  do  with  It  (1858),  A  Strange  Story  (1861), 
Kcnclm  Chillingly  (1873),  and  The  Parisians,  published  post- 
humously in  1873.  To  these  novels  must  be  added  three  of  the 
most  popular,  and,  as  respects  their  acting  qualities,  the  most 
successful  dramas  of  the  age — The  Lady  of  Lyons,  Richelieu, 
and  Money,  which  were  given  to  the  public  about  1838. 
19  217 


218  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Besides  the  original  poems  already  named,  Bulwer  has  exer- 
cised his  poetical  talents  riot  unworthily  in  producing  a  version 
of  the  Poems  and  Ballads  of  Schiller,  and  in  versifying  the 
legends  of  King  Arthur.  History,  too,  has  claimed  a  contri- 
bution from  his  ready  and  versatile  pen,  as  is  evidenced  by  his 
History  of  Athens.  He  was,  also,  for  a  brief  period,  editor  of  the 
"  New  Monthly  Magazine." 

We  introduce  at  this  place,  an  extract  from  the  concluding 
part  of  My  Novel. 

On  his  return  to  England,  he  purchased  a  small  house  amidst  the  most 
beautiful  scenes  of  Devonshire,  and  there  patiently  commenced  a  work 
in  which  he  designed  to  bequeath  to  his  country  his  noblest  thoughts  in 
their  fairest  forms.  Some  men  best  develop  their  ideas  by  constant  exer- 
cise; their  thoughts  spring  from  their  brain  ready-armed,  and  seek,  like 
the  fabled  goddess,  to  take  constant  part  in  the  wars  of  men.  And  such 
are,  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  the  most  vigorous  and  lofty  writers;  but 
Leonard  did  not  belong  to  this  class.  Sweetness  and  serenity  were  the 
main  characteristics  of  his  genius ;  and  these  were  deepened  by  his  profound 
sense  of  his  domestic  happiness. 

To  wander  alone  with  Helen  by  the  banks  of  the  murmurous  river; 
to  gaze  with  her  on  the  deep  still  sea;  to  feel  that  his  thoughts,  even  when 
most  silent,  were  comprehended  by  the  intuition  of  love,  and  reflected  on 
that  translucent  sympathy  so  yearned  for  and  so  rarely  found  by  poets : 
these  were  the  sabbaths  of  his  soul,  necessary  to  fit  him  for  its  labors ;  for 
the  writer  has  this  advantage  over  other  men — that  his  repose  is  not  in- 
dolence. His  duties,  rightly  fulfilled,  are  discharged  to  earth,  and  men  in 
other  capacities  than  those  of  action.  If  he  is  not  seen  among  those  who 
act,  he  is  all  the  while  maturing  some  noiseless  influence,  which  will  guide 
or  illumine,  civilize  or  elevate,  the  restless  men  whose  noblest  actions  are 
but  the  obedient  agencies  of  the  thoughts  of  writers.  Call  not,  then,  the 
poet  whom  we  place  amidst  the  varieties  of  life,  the  sybarite  of  literary 
ease  if,  returning  on  summer  ever,  Helen's  light  footstep  by  his  musing 
side,  he  greets  his  sequestered  home,  with  its  trellised  flowers  smiling  out 
from  amidst  the  lonely  cliffs  in  which  it  is  embedded ;  while,  lovers  still, 
though  wedded  long,  they  turn  to  each  other  with  such  deep  joy  in  their 
speaking  eyes,  grateful  that  the  world,  with  its  various  distractions  and 
noisy  conflicts,  lies  so  far  from  their  actual  existence  ;  only  united  to  them 
by  the  happy  link  that  the  writer  weaves  invisibly  with  the  hearts  that  he 
moves  and  the  souls  that  he  inspires. 

No!  Character  and  circumstance  alike  unfitted  Leonard  for  the  strife  of 
the  thronged  literary  democracy ;  they  led  towards  the  development  of  the 
gentler  and  purer  portions  of  his  nature,  to  the  gradual  suppression  of  the 
more  combative  and  turbulent.  The  influence  of  the  happy  light  under 
which  his  genius  so  silently  and  calmly  grew,  was  seen  in  the  exquisite 
harmony  of  its  colors,  rather  than  the  gorgeous  diversities  of  their  glow.  His 
contemplation,  intent  upon  objects  of  peaceful  beauty,  and  undisturbed  by 
rude  anxieties  and  vehement  passions,  suggested  only  kindred  reproductions 
to  the  creative  faculty  bv  which  it  was  vivified  ;  so  that  the  whole  man  was 


BULWER.  219 


not  only  a  poet,  but,  as  it  were,  a  poem — a  living  idyl,  calling  into  pastoral 
music  every  reed  that  sighed  and  trembled  along  the  stream  of  life. 

And  Helen  was  so  united  to  a  nature  of  this  kind,  she  so  guarded  the 
ideal  existence  in  which  it  breathes!  All  the  little  cares  and  troubles  of 
the  common  practical  life  she  appropriated  so  quietly  to  herself— the 
stronger  of  the  two,  as  should  be  a  poet's  wife,  in  the  necessary  household 
duties  of  prudence  and  forethought.  Thus,  if  the  man's  genius  made  the 
home  a  temple,  the  woman's  wisdom  gave  to  the  temple  the  security  of  the 
fortress. 

They  have  only  one  child — a  girl ;  they  call  her  Nora.  She  has  the 
father's  soul-lit  eyes,  and  the  mother's  warm  human  smile.  She  assists 
Helen  in  the  morning's  noiseless  domestic  duties;  she  sits  in  the  evening 
at  Leonard's  feet,  while  he  reads  or  writes.  In  each  light  grief  of  child- 
hood she  steals  to  the  mother's  knee  ;  but  in  each  young  impulse  of  delight, 
or  each  brighter  flash  of  progressive  reason,  she  springs  to  the  father's 
breast.  Sweet  Helen,  thou  hast  taught  her  this,  taking  to  thyself  the 
shadows  even  of  thine  infant's  life,  and  leaving  to  thy  partner's  eyes  only 
its  rosy  light ! 

Leonard,  at  last,  has  completed  the  work  which  has  been  the  joy  and 
the  labor  of  so  many  years— the  work  which  he  regards  as  the  flower  of  all 
his  spiritual  being,  and  to  which  he  has  committed  all  the  hopes  that  unite 
the  creatures  of  to-day  with  the  generations  of  the  future.  The  work  has 
gone  through  the  press,  each  line  lingered  over  with  the  elaborate  patience 
of  the  artist,  loath  to  part  with  the  thought  he  has  sculptured  into  form, 
while  an  improving  touch  can  be  imparted  by  the  chisel.  He  has  accepted 
an  invitation  from  Norreys.  In  the  restless  excitement  (strange  to  him, 
since  his  first  happy  maiden  effort)  he  has  gone  to  London. 

Unrecognized  in  the  huge  metropolis,  he  has  watched  to  see  if  the  world 
acknowledged  the  new  tie  he  has  woven  between  its  busy  life  and  his 
secluded  toil.  And  the  work  came  out  in  an  unpropitious  hour;  other 
things  were  occupying  the  public;  the  world  was  not  at  leisure  to  heed 
him,  and  the  book  did  not  penetrate  into  the  great  circle  of  readers.  But 
a  savage  critic  had  seized  on  it,  and  mangled,  distorted,  deformed  it,  con- 
founding together  defect  and  beauty  in  one  mocking  ridicule;  and  the 
beauties  have  not  yet  found  an  exponent,  nor  the  defects  a  defender;  and 
the  publisher  shakes  his  head,  points  to  groaning  shelves,  and  delicately 
hints  that  the  work  which  was  to  be  the  epitome  of  the  sacred  life  within 
life,  does  not  hit  the  taste  of  the  day. 

Leonard  thinks  over  the  years  that  his  still  labor  has  cost  him,  and 
knows  that  he  has  exhausted'the  richest  mines  of  his  intellect;  and  that 
long  years  will  elapse  before  he  can  recruit  that  capital  of  ideas  which  is 
necessary  to  sink  new  shafts,  and  bring  to  light  fresh  ore;  and  the  deep 
despondency  of  intellect,  frustrated  in  its  highest  aims,  has  seized  him,  and 
all  he  has  before  done  is  involved  in  failure  by  the  defeat  of  the  crowning 
effort.  Failure,  and  irrecoverable,  seems  his  whole  ambition  as  a  writer; 
his  whole  existence  in  the  fair  Ideal  seems  to  have  been  a  profitless  dream, 
and  the  face  of  the  Ideal  itself  is  obscured. 

And  even  Norreys  frankly,  though  kindly,  intimates  that  the  life  of  a 
metropolis  is  essential  to  the  healthful  intuition  of  a  writer  in  the  intel- 
lectual wants  of  his  age;  since  every  great  writer  supplies  a  want  in  his 
own  generation,  for  some  feeling  to  be  announced,  some  truth  to  be  revealed, 
and  as  this  maxim  is  generally  sound,  as  most  great  writers  have  lived  in 


220  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


cities,  Leonard  dares  not  dwell  on  the  exception  ;  it  is  only  success  that 
justifies  the  attempt  to  be  an  exception  to  the  common  rule;  and  with  the 
blunt  manhood  of  his  nature,  which  is  not  a  poet's,  Norreys  sums  up  with, 
"What  then?  One  experiment  has  failed;  fit  your  life  to  your  genius, 
and  try  again."  Try  again  !  Easy  counsel  enough  to  the  man  of  ready 
resource  and  quick,  combative  mind;  but  to  Leonard,  how  hard  and  how 
harsh  !  "  Fit  his  life  to  his  genius ! " — renounce  contemplation  and  Nature 
for  the  jostle  of  Oxford  Street! — would  that  life  not  scare  away  the  genius 
for  ever  ? 

Perplexed  and  despondent,  though  still  struggling  for  fortitude,  he 
returns  to  his  home,  and  there  at  his  hearth  awaits  the  Soother,  and  there 
is  the  voice  that  repeats  the  passages  most  beloved,  and  prophesies  so  con- 
fidently of  future  fame;  and  gradually  all  around  smiles  from  the  smile 
of  Helen.  And  the  profound  conviction  that  Heaven  places  human  hap- 
piness beyond  the  reach  of  the  world's  contempt  or  praise,  circulates 
through  his  system  and  restores  its  serene  calm.  And  he  feels  that  the 
duty  of  the  intellect  is  to  accomplish  and  perfect  itself — to  harmonize  its 
sounds  into  music  that  may  be  heard  in  Heaven,  though  it  wake  not  an 
echo  on  the  earth.  If  this  be  done,  as  with  some  men,  best  amidst  the 
din  and  the  discord,  be  it  so;  if,  as  with  him,  best  in.  silence,  be  it  so  too. 
And  the  next  day  he  reclines  with  Helen  by  the  sea-shore,  gazing  calmly 
as  before  on  the  measureless  sunlit  ocean;  and  Helen,  looking  into  his 
face,  sees  that  it  is  sunlit  as  the  deep.  His  hand  steals  within  her  own,  in 
the  gratitude  that  endears  beyond  the  power  of  passion,  and  he  murmurs 
gently,  "Blessed  be  the  woman  who  consoles." 

The  work  found  its  way  at  length  into  fame,  and  the  fame  sent  its  voice 
loud  to  the  poet's  home.  But  the  applause  of  the  world  had  not  a  sound 
so  sweet  to  his  ear,  as  when,  in  doubt,  humiliation,  and  sadness,  the  lips 
of  his  Helen  had  whispered,  "Hope!  and  believe." 

As  exhibiting,  in  a  rather  striking  and  amusing  fashion,  some 
of  the  youthful  peculiarities  of  its  hero,  we  present  the  follow- 
ing extract  from  Kenelm  Chillingly : 

The  morning  after  these  birthday  rejoicings,  Sir  Peter  and  Lady  Chil- 
lingly held  a  long  consultation  on  the  peculiarities  of  their  heir,  and  the 
best  mode  of  instilling  into  his  mind  the  expediency  either  of  entertaining 
more  pleasing  views,  or  at  least  of  professing  less  unpopular  sentiments, 
compatibly,  of  course,  though  they  did  not  say  it,  with  the  new  ideas  that 
were  to  govern  his  century.  Having  come  to  an  agreement  on  this  deli- 
cate subject,  they  went  forth,  arm-in-arm,  in  search  of  their  heir.  Kenelm 
seldom  met  them  at  breakfast.  He  was  an  early  riser,  and  accustomed  to 
solitary  rambles  before  his  parents  were  out  of  bed. 

The  worthy  pair  found  Kenelm  seated  on  the  banks  of  a  trout-stream 
that  meandered  through  Chillingly  Park,  dipping  his  line  into  the  water, 
and  yawning,  with  apparent  relief  in  that  operation. 

"Does  fishing  amuse  you,  my  boy?''  said  Sir  Peter,  heartily. 

"  Not  in  the  least,  sir,"  answered  Kenelm. 

"Then  why  do  you  do  it?"  asked  Lady  Chillingly. 

"  Because  I  know  nothing  else  that  amuses  me  more." 


BULWER.  221 

"  Ah  !  that  is  it,"  said  Sir  Peter ;  "  the  whole  secret  of  Kenelm's  oddities 
is  to  be  found  in  these  words,  ray  dear;  he  needs  amusement.  Voltaire 
says  truly  '  amusement  is  one  of  the  wants  of  man  ;'  and  if  Kenelm  could 
be'  amused  like  other  people,  he  could  be  like  other  people." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Kenelm,  gravely,  and  extracting  from  the  water  a 
small  but  lively  trout,  which  settled  itself  in  Lady  Chillingly's  lap — "in 
that  case  I  would  rather  not  be  amused.  I  have  no  interest  in  the  absurd- 
ities of  other  people.  The  instinct  of  self-preservation  compels  me  to  have 
some  interest  in  my  own." 

"  Kenelm,  sir,"  exclaimed  Lady  Chillingly,  with  an  animation  into  which 
her  tranquil  Ladyship  was  very  rarely  betrayed,  "take  away  that  horrid 
damp  thing;  put  down  your  rod  and  attend  to  what  your  father  says. 
Your  strange  conduct  gives  us  cause  of  serious  anxiety." 

Kenelm  unhooked  the  trout,  deposited  the  fish  in  his  basket,  and,  raising 
his  large  eyes  to  his  father's  face,  said,  "What  is  there  in  my  conduct  that 
occasions  you  displeasure?" 

"Not  displeasure,  Kenelm,"  said  Sir  Peter,  kindly,  ''but  anxiety;  your 
mother  has  hit  upon  the  right  word.  You  see,  my  dear  son,  that  it  is  my 
wish  that  you  should  distinguish  yourself  in  the  world.  You  might  repre- 
sent this  country  as  your  ancestors  have  done  before.  I  had  looked  forward 
to  the  proceedings  of  yesterday  as  an  admirable  occasion  for  your  introduc- 
tion to  your  future  constituents.  Oratory  is  the  talent  most  appreciated  in 
a  fine  country,  and  why  should  you  not  be  an  orator?  Demosthenes  says 
that  delivery,  delivery,  delivery,  is  the  art  of  oratory ;  and  your  delivery  is 
excellent,  graceful,  self-possessed,  classical." 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  father.  Demosthenes  does  not  say  delivery,  nor 
action,  as  the  word  is  commonly  rendered;  he  says,  'acting  a  stage- play' — 
virdxpiffif :  the  art  by  which  a  man  delivers  a  speech  in  a  feigned  character — 
whence  we  get  the  word  hypocrisy.  Hypocrisy,  hypocrisy,  hypocrisy !  is, 
according  to  Demosthenes,  the  triple  art  of  the  orator.  Do  you  wish  me  to 
become  triply  a  hypocrite?" 

"  Kenelm,  I  am  ashamed  of  you.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  it  is 
only  by  metaphor  that  you  can  twist  the  word  ascribed  to  the  great  Athe- 
nian into  the  sense  of  hypocrisy.  But  assuming  it,  as  you  say,  to  mean  not 
delivery,  but  acting,  I  understand  why  your  debut  as  an  orator  was  not  suc- 
cessful. Your  delivery  was  excellent,  your  acting  defective.  An  orator 
should  please,  conciliate,  persuade,  prepossess.  You  did  the  reverse  of  all 
this,  and  though  you  produced  a  great  effect,  the  effect  was  so  decidedly  to 
your  disadvantage  that  it  would  have  lost  you  an  election  on  any  hustings 
in  England." 

"Am  I  to  understand,  my  dear  father,"  said  Kenelm,  in  the  mournful 
and  compassionate  tones  with  which  a  pious  minister  of  the  church  reproves 
some  abandoned  and  hoary  sinner — "am  I  to  understand  that  you  would 
commend  to  your  son  the  adoption  of  deliberate  falsehood  for  the  gain  of  a 
selfish  advantage  ?  " 

"Deliberate  falsehood  !  you  impertinent  puppy!" 

"Puppy!"  repeated  Kenelm,  not  indignantly,  but  musingly — "puppy! 
A  well-bred  puppy  takes  after  its  parents." 

Sir  Peter  burst  out  laughing. 

Lady  Chillingly  rose  with  dignity,  shook  her  gown,  unfolded  her  para- 
sol, and  stalked  away  speechless. 
19* 


222  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

"Now,  look  you,  Kenelm,"  said  Sir  Peter,  as  soon  as  lie  had  composed 
himself.  "  These  quips  and  humors  of  yours  are  amusing  enough  to  an 
eccentric  m:m  like  myself,  but  they  will  not  do  for  the  world  ;  and  how  at 
your  age,  and  with  the  rare  advantages  you  have  had  in  an  early  introduc- 
tion to  the  best  intellectual  society,  under  the  guidance  of  a  tutor  acquainted 
with  the  new  ideas  which  are  to  influence  the  conduct  of  statesmen,  you 
could  have  made  so  silly  a  speech  as  you  did  yesterday,  I  cannot  un- 
derstand." 

"  My  dear  father,  allow  me  to  assure  you  that  the  ideas  I  expressed  are 
the  new  ideas  most  in  vogue — ideas  expressed  in  still  plainer,  or,  if  you 
prefer  the  epithet,  still  sillier  terms  than  I  employed.  You  will  find  them 
instilled  into  the  public  mind  by  '  The  Londoner/  and  by  most  intellectual 
journals  of  a  liberal  character." 

"  Kenelm,  Kenelm,  such  ideas  would  turn  the  world  topsy-turvy." 

"  New  ideas  always  do  tend  to  turn  old  ideas  topsy-turvy.  And  the  world, 
after  all,  is  only  an  idea,  which  is  turned  topsy-turvy  with  every  successive 
century." 

"You  make  me  sick  of  the  word  ideas.  Leave  off  your  metaphysics  and 
study  real  life." 

"  It  is  real  life  which  I  did  study  under  Mr.  Welby.  He  is  the  Archi- 
mandrite of  Eealism.  It  is  sham  life  which  you  wish  me  to  study.  To 
oblige  you  I  am  willing  to  commence  it.  I  dare  say  it  is  very  pleasant. 
Real  life  is  not;  on  the  contrary— dull."  And  Kenelm  yawned  again. 

"  Have  you  no  young  friends  among  your  fellow-collegians  ?  " 

"Friends!  certainly  not,  sir.  But  I  believe  I  have  some* enemies,  who 
answer  the  same  purpose  as  friends,  only  they  don't  hurt  one  so  much." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  lived  alone  at  Cambridge  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  lived  a  good  deal  with  Aristophanes,  and  a  little  with  Conic 
Sections  and  Hydrostatics." 

"  Books.     Dry  company." 

"  More  innocent,  at  least,  than  moist  company.  Did  you  ever  get  drunk, 
sir?" 

"  Drunk  !»- 

"  I  tried  to  do  so  once  with  the  young  companions  whom  you  would  com- 
mend to  me  as  friends.  I  don't  think  I  succeeded,  but  I  woke  with  a  head- 
ache. Keal  life  at  college  abounds  with  headache." 

"  Kenelm,  my  boy,  one  thing  is  clear — you  must  travel." 

"  As  you  please,  sir.  Marcus  Antonius  says  that  it  is  all  one  to  a  stone 
whether  it  be  thrown  upwards  or  downwards.  When  shall  I  start  ?" 

"Very  soon.  Of  course  there  are  preparations  to  make;  you  should 
have  a  traveling  companion.  I  don't  mean  a  tutor — you  are  too  clever 
and  too  steady  to  need  one;  but  a  pleasant,  sensible,  well-mannered  young 
person  of  your  own  age." 

"My  own  age— male  or  female?" 

Sir  Peter  tried  hard  to  frown.  The  utmost  he  could  do  was  to  reply 
gravely,  "  Female]  If  I  said  you  were  too  steady  to  need  a  tutor,  it  was 
because  you  have  hitherto  seemed  little  likely  to  be  led  out  of  your  way  by 
female  allurements.  Among  your  other  studies,  may  I  inquire  if  you  have 
included  that  which  no  man  has  ever  yet  thoroughly  mastered — the  study 
of  woman?" 


BULWER.  223 


" Certainly.     Do  you  object  to  my  catching  another  trout?" 

"  Trout  be — blest,  or  the  reverse.  So  you  have  studied  woman.  I  should 
never  have  thought  it.  Where  and  when  did  you  commence  that  depart- 
ment of  science  ?  " 

"When?  ever  since  I  was  ten  years  old.  Where?  first  in  your  own 
house,  then  at  college.  Hush ! — a  bite,"  and  another  trout  left  its  native 
element  and  alighted  on  Sir  Peter's  nose,  whence  it  was  solemnly  trans- 
ferred to  the  basket. 

"At  ten  years  old,  and  in  my  house!  That  flaunting  hussy  Jane,  the 
under-housemaid  — " 

"Jane!  No,  sir.  Pamela,  Miss  Byron,  Clarissa — females  in  Richard- 
son, who,  according  to  Dr.  Johnson,  'taught  the  passions  to  move  at  the 
command  of  virtue.'  I  trust  for  your  sake  that  Dr.  Johnson  did  not  err  in 
that  assertion,  for  I  found  all  these  females  at  night  in  your  own  private 
apartments." 

"Oh  !"  said  Sir  Peter,  "that's  all." 

"  All  I  remember  at  ten  years  old,"  replied  Kenelra. 

"And  at  Mr.  Welby's  or  at  college,"  proceeded  Sir  Peter,  timorously, 
"was  your  acquaintance  with  females  of  the  same  kind?" 

Kenelm  shook  his  head.  "  Much  worse;  they  were  very  naughty  indeed 
at  college." 

"  I  should  think  so,  with  such  a  lot  of  young  fellows  running  after  them." 

"Very  few  fellows  run  after  the  females  I  mean— rather  avoid  them." 

"  So  much  the  better." 

"No,  my  father,  so  much  the  worse;  without  an  intimate  knowledge  of 
those  females  there  is  little  use  going  to  college  at  all." 

"  Explain  yourself." 

"  Every  one  who  receives  a  classical  education  is  introduced  into  their 
society — Pyrrha  and  Lydia,  Glycera  and  Corinna,  and  many  more,  all  of 
the  same  sort ;  and  then  the  females  in  Aristophanes — what  do  you  say  to 
them,  sir?" 

"  Is  it  only  females  who  lived  2000  or  3000  years  ago,  or  more  probably 
never  lived  at  all,  whose  intimacy  you  have  cultivated?  Have  you  never 
admired  any  real  women  ?" 

"  Heal  women  !  I  never  met  one.  Never  met  a  woman  who  was  not  a 
sham — a  sham  from  the  moment  she  is  told  to  be  pretty-behaved,  conceal 
her  sentiments,  and  look  fibs  when  she  does  not  speak  them.  But  if  I  am 
to  learn  sham  life,  I  suppose  I  must  put  up  with  sham  women." 

"Have  you  been  crossed  in  love,  that  you  speak  so  bitterly  of  the  sex?" 

"I  don't  speak  bitterly  of  the  sex.  Examine  any  woman  on  her  oath, 
and  she  '11  own  she  is  a  "sham,  always  has  been,  and  always  will  be,  and  is 
proud  of  it." 

"I  am  glad  your  mother  is  not  by  to  hear  you.  You  will  think  differ- 
ently one  of  these  days.  Meanwhile,  to  turn  to  the  other  sex,  is  there  no 
young  man  of  your  own  rank  with  whom  you  would  like  to  travel  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.     I  hate  quarreling." 

"  As  you  please.  But  you  cannot  go  quite  alone ;  I  will  find  you  a  good 
traveling  servant.  I  must  write  to  town  to-day  about  your  preparations, 
and  in  another  week  or  so  I  hope  all  will  be  ready.  Your  allowance  will 


224  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


be  whatever  you  like  to  fix  it  at ;  you  have  never  been  extravagant,  and — 
boy — I  love  you.  Amuse  yourself,  enjoy  yourself,  and  come  back  cured 
of  your  oddities,  but  preserving  your  honor." 

Sir  Peter  bent  down  and  kissed  his  son's  brow.  Kenelm  was  moved  :  he 
rose,  put  his  arm  around  his  father's  shoulder,  and  lovingly  said,  in  an 
undertone, "  If  ever  I  am  tempted  to  do  a  base  thing,  may  I  remember 
whose  son  I  am — I  shall  be  safe  then  "  He  withdrew  his  arm  as  he  said 
this,  and  took  his  solitary  way  along  the  banks  of  the  stream,  forgetful  of 
rod  and  line. 

The  following  scene  from  the  Lady  of  Lyons  will  illustrate 
Bulwer's  peculiarities  as  a  dramatist. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  II. — Melnotte's  cottage— Widow  bustling  about  a  table 
spread  for  supper. 

Widow.  So,  I  think  that  looks  very  neat.  .  He  sent  me  a  line,  so 
blotted  that  I  can  scarcely  read  it,  to  say  he  would  be  here  almost 
immediately.  She  must  have  loved  him  well  indeed  to  have  forgotten 
his  birth ;  for  though  he  was  introduced  to  her  in  disguise,  he  is  too 
honorable  not  to  have  revealed  to  her  the  artifice,  which  her  love 
only  could  forgive.  Well  I  do  not  wonder  at  it ;  for  though  my  son 
is  not  a  prince,  he  ought  to  be  one,  and  that's  almost  as  good.  (Knock 
at  the  door.}  Ah !  here  they  are. 

Enter  MELNOTTE  and  PAULINE. 

Widow.  Oh,  my  boy — the  pride  of  my  heart !  — welcome,  welcome ! 
I  beg  pardon,  ma'am,  but  I  do  love  him  so  ! 

Pauline.  Good  woman,  I  really — why  prince,  what  is  this? — does 
the  old  lady  know  you  ?  Oh,  I  guess  you  have  done  her  som'e  service. 
Another  proof  of  your  kind  hea'rt,  is  it  not  ? 

Mel.  Of  my  kind  heart,  ay ! 

Pauline.  So  you  know  the  prince  ? 

Widow.  Know  him,  madam  ? — Ah,  I  begin  to  fear  it  is  you  who 
know  him  not ! 

Pauline.  Do  you  think  she  is  mad  ?  Can  we  stay  here,  my  lord  ?  I 
think  there  is  something  very  wild  about  her. 

Mel.  Madam,  I — no,  I  cannot  tell  her ;  my  knees  knock  together ; 
what  a  coward  is  a  man  who  has  lost  his  honor !  Speak  to  her — speak 
to  her  (to  his  mother)— tell  her  that— O  Heaven,  that  I  were  dead ! 

Pauline.  How  confused  he  looks !— this  strange  place ! — this  woman 
— what  can  it  mean  ?— I  half  suspect — Who  are  you,  madam  ? — who 
are  you  ?  can't  you  speak  ?  are  you  struck  dumb  ? 

Widow.  Claude,  you  have  not  deceived  her? — Ah,  shame  upon 
you !  I  thought  that,  before  you  went  to  the  altar,  she  was  to  have 
known  all. 


BULWER.  225 


Pauline.  All !  what ! — My  blood  freezes  in  my  veins ! 
Widow.  Poor  lady  ! — dare  I  tell  her,  Claude?  (Melnotte  makes  a  sign 
of  assent.)  Know  you  not  then,  madam,  that  this  young  man  is  of 
poor  though  honest  parents  ?  Know  you  not  that  you  are  wedded  to 
my  son,  Claude  Melnotte  ? 

Pauline.  Your  son !  hold — hold !  do  not  speak  to  me.     (Approaches 
Melnotte,  and  lays  her  hand  upon  his  arm.)     Is  this  a  jest?  is  it?  I 
know  it  is,  only  speak — one  word — one  look — one  smile.    I  cannot 
believe — I  who  loved  thee  so — I  cannot  believe  that  thou  art  such  a 
— No,  I  will  not  wrong  thee  by  a  harsh  word — Speak  ! 
Mel.  Leave  us — have  pity  on  her,  on.  me :  leave  us. 
Widow.  Oh,  Claude,  that  I  should  live  to  see  thee  bowed  by  shame ! 
thee  of  whom  I  was  so  proud !     (Exit.) 
Pauline.  Her  son — her  son ! 
Mel.  Now.  lady,  hear  me. 

Pauline.  Hear  thee ! 

Ay,  speak — her  son !  have  fiends  a  parent  ?  speak, 
That  thou  mayst  silence  curses— speak  ! 
Mel.  No,  curse  me : 

Thy  curse  would  blast  me  less  than  thy  forgiveness. 
Pauline  (laughing  wildly.) 

"This  is  thy  palace  where  the  perfumed  light 
Steals  through  the  mist  of  alabaster  lamps, 
And  every  air  is  heavy  with  the  sighs 
Of  orange-groves,  and  music  from  sweet  lutes, 
And  murmurs  of  low  fountains  that  gush  forth 
I' the  midst  of  roses!"    Dost  thou  like  the  picture? 
This  is  my  bridal  home,  and  thou  my  bridegroom. 

0  fool — 0  dupe— 0  wretch  ! — I  see  it  all — 
The  by- word  and  the  jeer  of  every  tongue 
In  Lyons.    Hast  thou  in  thy  heart  one  touch 

Of  human  kindness  ?  "if  thou  hast,  why,  kill  me, 
And  save  thy  wife  from  madness.    No,  it  cannot — 
It  cannot  be :  this  is  some  horrid  dream : 

1  shall  wake  soon. — (Touching  him.) 

Art  flesh?  art  man?  or  but 
The  shadow  seen  in  sleep?  It  is  too  real. 
What  have  I  done  to  thee  ?  how  sinned  against  thee, 
That  thou  should'st  crush  me  thus? 

Mel.  Pauline,  by  pride 

Angels  have  fallen  ere  thy  time :  by  pride — 
That  sole  alloy  of  thy  most  lovely  mould — 
The  evil  spirit  of  a  bitter  love, 
And  a  revengeful  heart,  had  power  upon  thee : 
I  saw  thee  midst  the  flow'rs  the  lowly  boy 
P 


226  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Tended,  unmark'd  by  thee — a  spirit  of  bloom, 
And  joy,  and  freshness,  as  if  Spring  itself 
Were  made  a  living  thing,  and  wore  thy  shape ! 
I  saw  thee,  and  the  passionate  heart  of  man 
Enter'd  the  breast  of  the  wild-dreaming  boy. 
And  from  that  hour  I  grew — what  to  the  last 
I  shall  be— thine  adorer !     Well,  this  love, 
Vain,  frantic,  guilty,  if  thou  wilt,  became 
A  fountain  of  ambition  and  bright  hope ; 
I  thought  of  tales  that  by  the  winter  hearth 
Old  gossips  tell — how  maidens  sprung  from  kings 
Have  stoop'd  from  their  high  sphere  ;  how  love,  like  death, 
Levels  all  ranks,  and  lays  the  shepherd's  crook 
Beside  the  sceptre.     Thus  I  made  my  home 
In  the  soft  palace  of  a  fairy  Future ! 
My  father  died ;   and  I,  the  peasant-born, 
Was  my  own  lord.    Then  did  I  seek  to  rise 
Out  of  the  prison  of  my  mean  estate ; 
And,  with  such  jewels  as  the  exploring  mind 
Brings  from  the  caves  of  knowledge,  buy  my  ransom 
From  those  twin  gaolers  of  the  daring  heart- 
Low  birth  and  iron  fortune.    Thy  bright  image, 
Glass'd  in  my  soul,  took  all  the  hues  of  glory, 
And  lured  me  on  to  those  inspiring  toils 
By  which  man  masters  men !     For  thee  I  grew 
A  midnight  student  o'er  the  dreams  of  sages. 
For  thee  I  sought  to  borrow  from  each  grace, 
And  every  muse,  such  attributes  as  lend 
Ideal  charms  to  love.     I  thought  of  thee, 
And  passion  taught  me  poesy — of  thee, 
And  on  the  painter's  canvas  grew  the  life 
Of  beauty!     Art  became  the  shadow 
Of  the  dear  starlight  of  thy  haunting  eyes ! 
Men  call'd  me  vain — some  mad— I  heeded  not; 
But  still  toil'd  on — hoped  on — for  it  was  sweet, 
If  not  to  win,  to-  feel  more  worthy  thee ! 

Pauline.  Has  he  a  magic  to  exorcise  hate ! 

Mel.      At  last,  in  one  mad  hour,  I  dared  to  pour 

The  thoughts  that  burst  their  channels  into  song, 
And  sent  them  to  thee— such  a  tribute,  lady, 
As  beauty  rarely  scorns,  even  from  the  meanest. 
The  name— appended  by  the  burning  heart 
That  long'd  to  show  its  idol  what  bright  things 
It  had  created — yea,  the  enthusiast's  name, 
That  should  have  been  thy  triumph,  was  thy  scorn 
That  very  hour — when  passion,  turn'd  to  wrath, 


BULWER.  227 


Resembled  hatred  most — when  thy  disdain 

Made  my  whole  soul  a  chaos— in  that  hour 

The  tempters  found  me  a  revengeful  tool 

For  their  revenge.     Thou  had'st  trampled  on  the  worm — 

It  turn'd  and  stung  thee ! 

Paulina.  Love,  sir,  hath  no  sting. 

What  was  the  slight  of  a  poor  powerless  girl 
To  the  deep  wrong  of  this  most  vile  revenge  ? 
Oh,  how  I  loved  this  man! — a  serf  — a  slave! 

Mel.        Hold,  lady  !     No,  not  slave !     Despair  is  free ! 

I  will  not  tell  thee  of  the  throes— the  struggles — 
The  anguish — the  remorse :  No,  let  it  pass 
And  let  me  come  to  such  most  poor  atonement 
Yet  in  my  power.    Pauline  — 

[Approaching  her,  and  about  to  take  her  hand. 

Pauline.  No,  touch  me  not ! 

I  know  my  fate.     You  are,  by  law,  my  tyrant 
And  I — O  Heaven! — a  peasant's  wife!    I'll  work — 
Toil — drudge — do  what  thou  wilt — but  touch  me  not; 
Let  my  wrongs  make  me  sacred ! 

Mel.  Do  not  fear  me. 

Thou  dost  not  know  me,  madam :   at  the  altar 
My  vengeance  ceased — my  guilty  oath  expired ! 
Henceforth,  no  image  of  some  marble  saint, 
Niched  in  cathedral  aisles,  is  hallow'd  more 
From  the  rude  hand  of  sacrilegious  wrong. 
I  am  thy  husband — nay,  thou  need'st  not  shudder ; — 
Here,  at  thy  feet,  I  lay  a  husband's  rights. 
A  marriage  thus  unholy — unfulfill'd — 
A  bond  of  fraud— is,  by  the  laws  of  France, 
Made  void  and  null.     To-night  sleep — sleep  in  peace. 
To-morrow,  pure  and  virgin  as  the  morn 
I  bore  thee,  bathed  in  blushes,  from  the 
Thy  father's  arms  shall  take  thee  to  thy 
The  law  shall  do  thee  justice,  and  restore 
Thy  right  to  bless  another  with  thy  love. 
And  when  thou  art  happy,  and  hast  half  forgot 
Him  who  so  loved — so  wrong'd  thee,  think  at  least 
Heaven  left  some  remnant  of  the  a'ngel  still 
In  that  poor  peasant's  nature !     Ho !   my  mother ! 

Enter  Widow. 

Conduct  this  lady — (she  is  not  my  wife ; 
She  is  our  guest, — our  honor'd  guest,  my  mother) — 
To  the  poor  chamber,  where  the  sleep  of  virtue, 


228  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Never,  beneath  my  father's  honest  roof, 
Ev'n  villains  dared  to  mar!    Now,  lady,  now, 
I  think  thou  wilt  believe  me.    Go,  my  mother! 

Widow.  She  is  not  thy  wife ! 

Mel.  Hush,  hush  !  for  mercy's  sake ! 

Speak  not,  but  go.  [Exeunt. 

Mel.  [sinking  down]  All  angels  bless  and  guard  her ! 

But  Bulwer  has  figured  in  political  life  also.  In  1832  he  was 
returned  to  Parliament  as  a  member  from  Lincoln,  and  continued 
steadfast  in  his  Radical  views  until  1841.  In  1847,  being  a  candi- 
date for  the  suffrages  of  the  "  Protectionists "  of  the  county  of 
Lincoln,  he  was  defeated  ;  but  five  years  later  he  was  returned  to 
the  House  of  Commons  by  the  voters  of  Herts.  "  Despite  of  physi- 
cal defects  which  would  have  discouraged  almost  any  other  man 
from  entering  into  public  life  at  all,  he  had  succeeded  in  winning 
a  reputation  as  a  great  speaker  in  a  debate  where  Palrnerston, 
Gladstone,  Bright,  and  Disraeli  were  champions.  So  deaf  that  he 
could  not  hear  the  arguments  of  his  opponents,  so  defective  in 
utterance  as  to  become  often  unintelligible,  he  actually  made  the 
House  of  Commons  doubt  for  a  while  whether  a  new  great  orator 
had  not  come  among  them.  It  was  not  great  oratory  after  all ;  it 
was  not  true  oratory  of  any  kind  ;  but  it  was  a  splendid  imitation 
of  the  real  thing — the  finest  electroplate  anywhere  to  be  found."* 

During  the  Derby  Ministry,  in  1858,  Bulwer  held  the  office  of 
Secretary  of  State  for  the  Colonies.  It  was  during  the  early  part 
of  this  political  career,  and  moved  by  its  peculiar  influences,  that 
he  published  the  pamphlet  The  Crisis,  which  attained  to  an  exten- 
sive circulation.  He  was  raised  to  the  peerage  in  1866.  His  death 
occurred  at  Torquay,  in  Devonshire,  on  the  18th  of  January,  1873, 
while  the  proof-sheets  of  his  last  novel — The  Parisians — were  just 
leaving  his  hands. 

"  If  Sir  Edward  Bulwer-Lytton  would  be  content  to  be  taken  for 
what  he  is,  a  respectable  place  might  be  assigned  to  him  in  the 
ranks  of  modern  novelists.  His  historical  romances  cannot,  in- 
deed, be  classed  with  those  either  of  Scott  or  of  his  more  immediate 
artistic  predecessor,  Chateaubriand.  In  describing  the  growth  of 
character,  and  the  influence  of  varying  circumstances  upon  it — the 
branch  of  art  on  which  he  most  plumes  himself — he  never  comes 
within  distance  of 'George  Eliot.'  His  portraits  are  not  distinct, 
like  Trollope's,  nor  finished  and  lifelike,  like  Thackeray's ;  his  plots 
are  never  so  carefully  worked  out  as  Wilkie  Collins',  nor  has  he  the 

*  " Modern  Leaders"  by  Justin  McCarthy. 


BULWER.  229 


eye  of  that  writer  and  of  Thackeray  for  a  telling  dramatic  situation. 
He  is  neither  original,  pathetic,  nor  amusing,  as  is  Dickens,  nor 
lively  and  dashing,  as  are  Mr.  Lever  and  the  author  of '  Guy  Liv- 
ingstone.' In  fact,  it  would  be  hard  to  mention  any  one  quality  of 
genius  or  style  in  which  he  has  not  a  living  superior. 

"  But  although  he  is  nowhere  first,  he  is  throughout  a  sufficiently 
good  second  to  justify  considerable  praise.  His  ideas  are  generally 
ingenious,  his  incidents  are  varied,  he  is  fertile  in  expedients ;  and 
when  the  number  of  characters  and  situations  are  taken  into 
account,  it  must  be  owned  that  he  reproduces  himself  but  little. 
Many  shrewd  remarks  and  a  few  witty  ones  are  scattered  up  and 
down  his  pages.  His  favorite  contrast  between  speculative  and 
practical  life  is  enforced  with  a  persistency  which  proves  that  he 
has  both  thought  and  acted ;  and  we  believe  him  to  be  free  from 
the  vanity  with  which  he  is  often  charged,  of  making  himself  his 
own  hero.  With  some  grave  exceptions,  such  as  Eugene  Aram, 
Ernest  Maltravers,  Alice,  and  Lucretia,  his  books  are  not  objection- 
able in  tone  and  substance ;  and  even  when  he  offends,  we  believe 
that  the  fault  may  be  traced  rather  to  a  fault  of  taste  than  to  a 
perverted  imagination. 

"A  high  and  somewhat  chivalrous  vein  of  sentiment  runs  through 
his  writings,  passing  sometimes  into  passages  of  real  eloquence  and 
often  into  a  diffused  poetic  imagery.  He  tries  to  be  on  the  right 
side  of  things,  and  has  a  true  sympathy  for  the  struggling  and 
unfortunate.  He  has  always  been  loyal  to  his  adopted  profession, 
and  in  the  background  of  his  works  we  may  see  the  figure  of  an 
English  gentleman  of  more  than  ordinary  abilities  and  informa- 
tion. He  is  unquestionably  the  first  of  the  particular  school  to 
which  he  belongs — that  of  sentimental  melodrama. 

'•  The  general  style  in  which  tbese  novels  are  written  is  not,  in 
our  judgment,  either  appropriate  or  striking.  It  would  be  difficult 
to  extract  a  dozen  pages  which  show  any  real  command  over  the 
resources  of  the  English  tongue.  The  language  is  never  bold,  vig- 
orous, or  terse;  it  is  sometimes  eloquent,  more  rarely  picturesque; 
very  often  it  degenerates  into  mere  bombast,  or  into  a  dilute  mock 
heroic.  And  there  is  throughout  a  manner,  more  easily  felt  than 
described,which  educated  people  in  general  most  carefully  eschew."* 

*  The  Westminster  Review,  April,  1865. 
20 


CHARLES  DICKENS. 


CHARLES  DICKENS  was  born  at  Landport  in  Portsea,  February 
7,  1812.  Debarred  by  a  very  delicate  constitution,  and  by  fre- 
quent attacks  of  illness,  from  active  participation  in  the  sports 
usual  with  boys  of  his  age,  he  found  a  very  satisfactory  com- 
pensation in  the  society  of  books. 

What  Dickens  has  written  of  the  youth  of  "  David  Copper- 
field  "  was,  in  the  following  particulars,  literally  true  of  himself: 
"  My  father  had  left  a  small  collection  of  books  in  a  little  room 
up-stairs  to  which  I  had  access,  and  which  nobody  else  in  our 
house  ever  troubled.  From  that  blessed  little  room,  '  Roderick 
Random,' '  Peregrine  Pickle,' '  Humphrey  Clinker,'  '  Tom  Jones/ 
the  '  Vicar  of  Wakefield,'  '  Don  Quixote,' '  Gil  Bias,'  and  '  Robin- 
son Crusoe,'  came  out,  a  glorious  host,  to  keep  me  company. 
They  kept  alive  my  fancy,  and  my  hope  of  something  beyond 
that  place  and  time."  "  The  usual  result  followed.  The  child 
took  to  writing,  himself,  and  became  famous  in  his  childish 
circle  for  having  written  a  tragedy  called  Misnar,  the  Sultan  of 
India."* 

But  Chatham,  the  scene  of  these  childhood  delights,  he  was 
separated  from,  when  about  nine  years  of  age,  by  the  removal 
of  his  father  to  Somerset  House,  London.  Here,  at  this  tender 
age,  the  bitterest  experiences  of  his  whole  life  awaited  him. 
His  father  fell  into  debt,  and  was  finally  thrown  into  the 
Marshalsea  prison  ;  whither,  shortly,  he  was  followed  by  the 
entire  family,  save  Charles  and  his  sister  Fanny.  Charles,  now 
about  ten  years  old,  found  employment  in  a  t4  crazy,  tumble- 
down "  blacking-warehouse;  where,  associated  with  coarse, 
ignorant  boys, — Bob  Fagin  and  Poll  Green, — he  fell  to  covering 
pots  of  paste-blacking.  Of  this  adventure  he  wrote  in  later 

*  Forster's  Life  of  Dickens,  Vol.  I. 

230 


DICKENS.  231 


years  :  "  No  words  can  express  the  secret  agony  of  my  soul  as  I 
sunk  into  this  companionship  ;  compared  these  every-day  as- 
sociates with  those  of  my  happier  childhood ;  and  felt  my  early 
hopes  of  growing  up  to  be  a  learned  and  distinguished  man 
crushed  in  my  breast.  The  deep  remembrance  of  the  sense  I 
had  of  being -utterly  neglected  and  hopeless;  of  the  shame  I 
felt  in  my  position  ;  of  the  misery  it  was  to  my  young  heart  to 
believe  that,  day  by  day,  what  I  had  learned,  and  thought,  and 
delighted  in,  and  raised  my  fancy  and  my  emulation  up  by,  was 
passing  away  from  me,  never  to  be  brought  back  any  more  ;  can- 
not be  written." 

Out  of  this  "  Slough  of  Despond"  young  Charles  was  rescued 
two  years  later,  and  sent,  until  fourteen  years  of  age,  to  Welling- 
ton House  Academy;  where,  according  to  his  own  statement, 
"  the  boys  trained  white  mice  much  better  than  the  master  trained 
the  boys."  A  year  or  two  spent  as  "  office-lad  "  to  attorneys, 
followed  by  about  eighteen  months'  intense  application  to  the 
study  of  Phonography,  brought  him,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  into- 
the  "  gallery  "  as  a  Parliamentary  reporter.  Three  years  later, 
January  (1834),  but  while  still  reporting,  Dickens  first  saw  him- 
self in  print.  "  He  has  described  himself  dropping  this  paper 
stealthily  one  evening  at  twilight,  with  fear  and  trembling,  into 
a  dark  letter-box  in  a  dark  office  up  a  dark  court  in  Fleet  Street ; 
and  he  has  told  his  agitation  when  it  appeared  in  all  the  glory 
of  print :  '  On  which  occasion  I  walked  down  to  Westminster 
Hall,  and  turned  into  it  for  half  an  hour,  because  my  eyes  were 
so  dimmed  with  joy  and  pride  that  they  could  not  bear  the 
street,  and  were  not  fit  to  be  seen  there.'  ' 

This  was  the  beginning  of  those  unique  Sketches  by  J5oz,  which 
at  once  decided  the  public  in  their  author's  favor.  These 
Sketches,  collected  into  two  volumes,  and  published  in  1836,  con- 
stituted Dickens's  first  work. 

In  the  spring  of  the  last-named  year  was  begun,  in  shilling 
numbers,  the  Posthumous  Papers  of  the  Pickwick  Club,  edited 
by  J3oz, — the  most  purely  amusing  and  the  uniquest  of  Dickens' 
works.  From  it  we  extract,  as  a  specimen  of  its  author's  ability 
in  the  department  of  humor, 

*  Forster's  Life  of  Dickens,  Vol.  I. 


232  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


MR.  PICKWICK'S  ADVENTURE  AT  MISS  TOMKINS'  SCHOOL. 

Half-past  ten  o'clock  arrived,  and  it  was  time  for  Mr.  Pickwick  to  issue 
forth  on  his  delicate  errand.  Resisting  Sam's  tender  of  his  great  coat,  in 
order  that  he  might  have  no  incnmbrance  in  scaling  the  wall,  he  set  forth, 
followed  by  his  attendant.  .  .  They  found  the  house,  read  the  brass-plate, 
walked  round  the  wall,  and  stopped  at  that  portion  of  it  which  divided 
them  from  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 

"  You  will  return  to  the  inn,  Sam,  when  you  have  assisted  me  over," 
said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

"  Wery  well,  sir." 

"And  you  will  sit  up  'till  I  return." 

"Cert'nly,  sir." 

"  Take  hold  of  my  leg;  and,  when  I  say  'Over/  raise  me  gently." 

"  All  right,  sir." 

Having  settled  these  preliminaries,  Mr.  Pickwick  grasped  the  top  of  the 
wall,  and  gave  the  word  "  Over,''  which  was  literally  obeyed.  Whether  his 
body  partook  in  some  degree  of  the  elasticity  of  his  mind,  or  whether  Mr. 
Weller's  notions  of  a  gentle  push  were  of  a  somewhat  rougher  description 
than  Mr.  Pickwick's,  the  immediate  effect  of  his  assistance  was  to  jerk  that 
immortal  gentleman  completely  over  the  wall  on  to  the  bed  beneath,  where, 
after  crushing  three  gooseberry  bushes,  and  a  rose-tree,  he  finally  alighted 
at  full  length. 

"You  ha'n't  hurt  yourself,  I  hope,  sir,"  said  Sam,  in  a  loud  whisper,  as 
soon  as  he  recovered  from  the  surprise  consequent  upon  the  mysterious  dis- 
appearance of  his  master. 

"I  have  not  hurt  myself,  Sam,  certainly,"  replied  Mr.  Pickwick,  from  the 
other  side  of  the  wall,  "  but  I  rather  think  thai  you  have  hurt  me." 

"  I  hope  not,  sir,"  said  Sam. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  rising,  "it's  nothing  but  a  few 
scratches.  Go  away,  or  we  shall  be  overheard." 

"  Good-by,  sir." 

"  Good-by." 

With  stealthy  steps  Sam  Weller  departed,  leaving  Mr.  Pickwick  alone 

in  the  garden Mr.  Pickwick  had  meditated  himself  into  a  doze,  when 

he  was  roused  by  the  chimes  of  the  neighboring  church  ringing  out  the 
hour — half-past  eleven. 

"That  is  the  time,"  thought  Mr.  Pickwick,  getting  cautiously  on  his 
feet.  He  looked  up  at  the  house.  The  lights  had  disappeared,  and  the 
shutters  were  closed — all  in  bed,  no  doubt.  He  walked  on  tip-toe  to  the 
door,  and  gave  a  gentle  tap.  Two  or  three  minutes  passing  without  any 
reply,  he  gave  another  tap  rather  louder,  and  then  another  rather  louder 
than  that. 

At  length  the  sound  of  feet  was  audible  on  the  stairs,  and  then  the  light 
of  a  candle  shone  through  the  key -hole  of  the  door.  There  was  a  good 
deal  of  unchaining  and  unbolting,  and  the  door  was  slowly  opened. 

Now  the  door  opened  outwards :  and  as  the  door  opened  wider  and 
wider,  Mr.  Pickwick  receded  behind  it,  more  and  more.  WThat  was  his 
astonishment  when  he  just  peeped  out  by  way  of  caution,  to  see  that  the 
person  who  had  opened  it  was — not  Job  Trotter,  but  a  servant-girl  with  a 
candle  in  her  hand! 


DICKENS.  233 


"  It  must  have  been  the  cat,  Sarah,"  said  the  girl,  addressing  herself  to 
some  one  in  the  house.     "Puss,  puss,  puss — tit,  tit,  tit."     But  no  animal 
heing  decoyed  by  these  blandishments,  the  girl  slowly  closed  the  door,  and 
refastened  it ;  leaving  Mr.  Pickwick  drawn  up  straight  against  the  wall. 
»*•"»••.».-'"*-.# 

"What  a  dreadful  situation  !  "  said  Mr.  Pickwick.  He  looked  up  at  the 
house — all  was  dark.  They  must  have  gone  to  bed  now.  He  would  try 
the  signal  again.  He  walked  on  tip-toe  across  the  moist  gravel,  and  tapped 
at  the  door.  He  held  his  breath,  and  listened  at  the  key-hole.  No 
reply  :  very  odd.  Another  knock.  He  listened  again.  There  was  a  low 
whispering  inside,  and  then  a  voice  cried — "Who's  there?" 

"That's  not  Job,"  thought  Mr.  Pickwick,  hastily  drawing  himself  straight 
up  against  the  wall  again  "It's  a  woman."  He  had  scarcely  had  time 
to  form  this  conclusion,  when  a  window  above  stairs  was  thrown  up,  and 
three  or  four  female  voices  repeated  the  query — "  Who's  there  ?" 

Mr.  Pickwick  dared  not  move  hand  or  foot.  It  was  clear  that  the  whole 
establishment  was  roused.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  remain  where  he  was, 
until  the  alarm  had  subsided :  and  then  by  a  supernatural  effort  to  get  over 
the  wall,  or  perish  in  the  attempt. 

What  was  his  discomfiture,  when  he  heard  the  chain  and  bolts  withdrawn, 
and  saw  the  door  slowly  opening,  wider  and  wider !  He  retreated  into  the 
corner,  step  by  step;  but  do  what  he  would,  the  interposition  of  his  own 
person  prevented  its  being  opened  to  its  utmost  width. 

"Who's  there?"  screamed  a  numerous  chorus  of  treble  voices  from  the 
stair-case  inside,  consisting  of  the  spinster  lady  of  the  establishment,  three 
teachers,  five  female  servants,  and  thirty  boarders,  all  half-dressed,  and  in 
a  forest  of  curl-papers.  Of  course  Mr.  Pickwick  did  n't  say  who  was  there : 
and  then  the  burden  of  the  chorus  changed  into — "  Lor' !  I  am  so  fright- 
ened." 

"  Cook,"  said  the  lady  abbess,  who  took  care  to  be  on  the  top  stair,  the 
very  last  of  the  group — "Cook,  why  don't  you  go  a  little  way  into  the 
garden?" 

"  Please,  ma'am,  I  don't  like,"  responded  the  cook. 

"Lor',  what  a  stupid  thing  that  cook  is!"  said  the  thirty  boarders. 

"Cook,"  said  the  lady  abbess,  with  great  dignity;  "  don't  answer  me,  if 
you  please.  I  insist  upon  your  looking  into  the  garden  immediately." 
Here  the  cook  began  to  cry,  and  the  housemaid  said  it  was  "a  shame!" 
for  which  partisanship  she  received  a  month's  warning  on  the  spot. 

"Do  you  hear,  cook?"  said  the  lady  abbess,  stamping  her  foot,  im- 
patiently. "  Don't  you  hear  your  missis,  cook?"  said  the  three  teachers. 
"  What  an  impudent  thing  that  co>k  is!"  said  the  thirty  boarders. 

The  unfortunate  cook,  thus  strongly  urged,  advanced  a  step  or  two,  and 
holding  her  candle  just  where  it  prevented  her  seeing  anything  at  all,  de- 
clared there  was  nothing  there,  and  it  must  have  been  the  wind.  The  door 
was  just  going  to  be  closed  in  consequence,  when  an  inquisitive  boarder, 
who  had  been  peeping  between  the  hinges,  set  up  a  fearful  screaming, 
which  called  back  the  cook  and  the  housemaid,  and  all  the  more  ad-, 
venturous,  in  no  time. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Miss  Smithers?"  said  the  lady  abbess,  as  the 
aforesaid  Miss  Smithers  proceeded  to  go  into  hysterics  of  four  young  lady 


234  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

power.     "Lor',  Miss   Smithers,  dear,"   said   the  other  nine  and  twenty 
boarders. 

"  Oh,  the  man — the  man — behind  the  door  !  "  screamed  Miss  Smithers. 

The  lady  abbess  no  sooner  heard  this  appalling  cry,  than  she  retreated 
to  her  own  bedroom,  double-locked  the  door,  and  fainted  away  comfortably. 
The  boarders,  and  the  teachers,  and  the  servants,  fell  back  up  the  stairs, 
and  upon  each  other;  and  never  was  such  a  screaming,  and  fainting,  and 
struggling  beheld.  In  the  midst  of  the  tumult,  Mr.  Pickwick  emerged 
from  his  concealment,  and  presented  himself  amongst  them. 

"  Ladies — dear  ladies,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

" Oh,  he  says  we're  dear,"  cried  the  oldest  and  ugliest  teacher.  "  Oh,  the 
wretch  ! " 

"  Ladies,"  roared  Mr.  Pickwick,  rendered  desperate  by  the  danger  of  his 
situation.  "Hear  me.  I  am  no  robber.  I  want  the  lady  of  the  house." 

"Oh,  what  a  ferocious  monster  !"  screamed  another  teacher.  "  He  wants 
Miss  Tomkins."  Here  there  was  a  general  scream. 

"Ring  the  alarm  bell,  somebody!"  cried  a  dozen  voices. 

"Don't — don't,"  shouted  Mr.  Pickwick.  "  Look  at  me.  Do  I  look  like 
a  robber?  My  dear  ladies — you  may  bind  me  hand  and  leg,  or  lock  me  up 
in  a  closet,  if  you  like.  Only  hear  what  I  have  got  to  say — only  hear  me." 

"How  did  you  come  in  our  garden  ?"  faltered  the  housemaid. 

"Call  the  lady  of  the  house,  and  I'll  tell  her  everything — everything," 
said  Mr.  Pickwick,  exerting  his  lungs  to  the  utmost  pitch.  "Call  her — 
only  be  quiet,  and  call  her,  and  you  shall  hear  everything." 

It  was  proposed,  as  a  test  of  Mr.  Pickwick's  sincerity,  that  he  should 
immediately  submit  to  personal  restraint;  and  that  gentleman  having  con- 
sented to  hold  a  conference  with  Miss  Tomkins,  from  the  interior  of  a 
closet  in  which  the  day  boarders  hung  up  their  bonnets  and  sandwich-bags, 
lie  at  once  stepped  into  it,  of  his  own  accord,  and  was  securely  locked  in. 
This  revived  the  others;  and  Miss  Tomkins  having  been  brought-to,  and 
brought  down,  the  conference  began. 

"What  did  you  do  in  my  garden,  Man?"  said  Miss  Tomkins,  in  a  faint 
voice. 

"  I  came  to  warn  you,  that  one  of  your  young  ladies  was  going  to  elope 
to-night,"  replied  Mr.  Pickwick,  from  the  interior  of  the  closet. 

"  Elope ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Tomkins,  the  three  teachers,  the  thirty  boarders, 
and  the  five  servants.  "  Who  with  ?  " 

"  Your  friend,  Mr.  Charles  Fitz  Marshall." 
" My  friend!    1  don't  know  any  such  person." 
"Well;  Mr.  Jingle,  then." 
"  I  never  heard  the  name  in  my  life." 

"Then,  1  have  been  deceived,  and  deluded,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick.  "I 
have  been  the  victim  of  a  conspiracy — a  foul  and  base  conspiracy.  Send  to 
the  Angel,  my  dear  ma'am,  if  you  don't  believe  me;  send  to  the  Angel  for 
Mr.  Pickwick's  man-servant,  I  implore  you,  ma'am."  .  .  . 

So  two  of  the  servants  were  despatched  to  the  Angel  in  search  of  Mr. 
Samuel  Weller:  and  the  remaining  three  stopped  behind  to  protect  Miss 
Tomkins,  and  the  three  teachers,  and  the  thirty  boarders.  And  Mr.  Pick- 


DICKENS.  235 


wick  sat  down  in  the  closet,  beneath  a  grove  of  sandwich  bags,  and  awaited 
the  return  of  the  messengers,  with  all  the  philosophy  and  fortitude  he  could 
summon  to  his  aid. 

An  hour  and  a  half  elapsed  before  they  came  back,  and  when  they  did 
come,  Mr.  Pickwick  recognized,  in  addition  to  the  voice  of  Mr.  Samuel 
Weller,  two  other  voices,  the  tones  of  which  struck  familiarly  on  his  ear; 
hut  whose  they  were,  he  could  not  for  the  life  of  him  call  to  mind.  A  very 
brief  conversation  ensued.  The  door  was  unlocked.  Mr.  Pickwick  stepped 
out  of  the  closet,  and  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  the  whole  establish- 
ment of  Westgate  House,  Mr.  Samuel  Weller,  and — old  Wardle,  and  his 
destined  son-in-law,  Mr.  Trundle  ! 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  running  forward  and  grasping 
Wardle's  hand,  "my  dear  friend,  pray,  for  Heaven's  sake,  explain  to  this 
lady  the  unfortunate  and  dreadful  situation  in  which  I  am  placed.  You 
must  have  heard  it  from  my  servant;  say,  at  all  events,  my  dear  fellow, 
that  I  am  neither  a  robber  nor  a  madman." 

"  I  have  said  so,  my  dear  friend.  I  have  said  so  already,"  replied  Mr. 
Wardle,  shaking  the  right  hand  of  his  friend,  while  Mr.  Trundle  shook  the 
left. 

"And  whoever  says,  or  has  said,  he  is,"  interposed  Mr.  WTeller,  stepping 
forward,  "says  that  which  is  not  the  truth,  but  so  far  from  it,  on  the  con- 
trary, quite  the  reverse.  And  if  there's  any  number  o'  men  on  these  here 
premises  as  has  said  so,  I  shall  be  wery  happv  to  give  'em  all  a  wery  con- 
vincing proof  o'  their  being  mistaken,  in  this  here  wery  room,  if  these 
wery  respectable  ladies  '11  have  the  goodness  to  retire  and  order  'em  up, 
one  at  a  time."  Having  delivered  this  defiance  with  great  volubility,  Mr. 
Wreller  struck  his  open  palm  emphatically  with  his  clenched  fist,  and 
winked  pleasantly  on  Miss  Tornkins;  the  intensity  of  whose  horror  at  her 
supposing  it  within  the  bounds  of  possibility  that  there  could  be  any  men 
on  the  premises  of  WTestgate  House  Establishment  for  Young  Ladies,  it  is 
impossible  to  describe. 

Mr.  Pickwick's  explanation  having  been  already  partially  made,  was 
soon  concluded.  But  neither  in  the  course  of  his  walk  home  with  his 
friends,  nor  afterwards  when  seated  before  a  blazing  fire  at  the  supper  he 
so  much  needed,  could  a  single  observation  be  drawn  from  him.  He 
seemed  bewildered  and  amazed. 

While  the  last  of  the  Pickwick  Papers  was  being  penned,  Oliver 
Twist  was  begun,  and  during  the  years  1837-38  completed  in 
monthly  numbers.  Hardly  had  the  last  work  left  his  hands,  when 
Nicholas  Nickleby  was  undertaken,  and  between  February  1838  and 
October  1839  finished.  The  beginning  of  the  year  1840  marked 
the  opening  of  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop,  which  was  closed  in  the 
Spring  of  the  next  year. 

Dickens's  next  work — Barnaby  Rudge — was  begun  during  the 
progress  of  Oliver  Twist,  but,  except  at  intervals,  had  been  laid  aside 
until  the  completion  of  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop,  when  it  was  resumed 
and  finished  in  weekly  parts  before  the  end  of  1841.  As  an  in- 
stance of  our  author's  vivid  descriptive  power,  we  cite,  from  this 
work, 


236  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


THE   SACKING  OF   NEWGATE  PRISON. 

And  now  the  strokes  began  to  fall  like  hail  upon  the  gate,  and  on  the 
strong  building;  for  those  who  could  not  reach  the  door  spent  their  fierce 
rnge  on  anything — even  on  the  great  blocks  of  stone,  which  shivered  their 
weapons  into  fragments,  and  made  their  hands  and  arms  tingle  as  if  the 
walls  were  active  in  their  stout  resistance,  and  dealt  them  back  their  blows. 
The  clash  of  iron  ringing  upon  iron  mingled  with  the  deafening  tumult, 
and  sounded  high  above  it,  as  the  great  sledge-hammer  rattled  on  the 
nailed  and  plated  door:  the  sparks  flew  off'  in  showers;  men  worked  in 
gangs,  and  at  short  intervals  relieved  each  other,  that  all  their  strength 
might  be  devoted  to  the  work ;  but  there  stood  the  portal  still,  as  grim  and 
dark  and  strong  as  ever,  and,  saving  for  the  dints  upon  its  battered  surface, 
quite  unchanged. 

While  some  brought  all  their  energies  to  bear  upon  this  toilsome  task ; 
and  some,  rearing  ladders  against  the  prison,  tried  to  clamber  to  the  sum- 
mit of  the  walls  they  were  too  short  to  scale;  and  some  again  engaged  a 
body  of  police  a  hundred  strong,  and  beat  them  back  and  trod  them  under 
foot  by  force  of  numbers;  others  besieged  the  house  on  which  the  jailer 
had  appeared,  and,  driving  in  the  door,  brought  out  his  furniture,  and  piled 
it  up  against  the  prison  gate,  to  make  a  bonfire  which  should  burn  it  down. 
As  soon  as  this  device  was  understood,  all  those  who  had  labored  hitherto, 
cast  down  their  tools  and  helped  to  swell  the  heap;  which  reached  half- 
way across  the  street,  and  was  so  high,  that  those  who  threw  more  fuel  on 
the  top,  got  up  by  ladders.  When  all  the  keeper's  goods,  were  flung  upon 
this  costly  pile,  to  the  last  fragment,  they  smeared  it  with  the  pitch,  and 
tar,  and  rosin  they  had  brought,  and  sprinkled  it  with  turpentine.  To  all 
the  woodwork  round  the  prison  doors  they  did  the  like,  leaving  not  a  joist 
or  beam  untouched.  This  infernal  christening  performed,  they  fired  the 
pile  with  lighted  matches  and  with  blazing  tow,  and  then  stood  by,  await- 
ing the  result. 

The  furniture  being  very  dry,  and  rendered  more  combustible  by  wax 
and  oil,  besides  the  arts  they  had  used,  took  fire  at  once.  The  flames 
roared  high  and  fiercely,  blackening  the  prison  wall,  and  twining  up  its 
lofty  front  like  burning  serpents.  At  first,  they  crowded  round  the  blaze, 
and  vented  their  exultation  only  in  their  looks;  but  when  it  grew  hotter 
and  fiercer— when  it  crackled,  leaped,  and  roared,  like  a  great  furnace— 
when  it  shone  upon  the  opposite  houses,  and  lighted  up  not  only  the  pale 
and  wondering  faces  at  the  windows,  but  the  inmost  corners  of  each  habita- 
tion— when,  through  the  deep-red  heat  and  glow,  the  fire  was  seen  sporting 
and  toying  with  the  door,  now  clinging  to  its  obdurate  surface,  now  gliding 
off'  with  fierce  inconstancy  and  soaring  high  into  the  sky,  anon  returning 
to  fold  it  in  its  burning  grasp  and  lure  it  to  its  ruin — when  it  shone  and 
gleamed  so  brightly  that  the  church  clock  of  St.  Sepulchre's,  so  often  point- 
ing to  the  hour  of  death,  was  legible  as  in  broad  day,  and  the  vane  upon 
its  steeple-top  glittered  in  the  unwonted  light  like  something  richly  jew- 
elled— when  blackened  stone  and  sombre  brick  grew  ruddy  in  the  deep 
reflection,  and  windows  shone  like  burnished  gold,  dotting  the  longest  dis- 
tance in  the  fiery  vista  with  their  specks  of  brightness — when  wall  and 
tower,  and  roof  and  chimney-stack,  seemed  drunK,  and  in  the  flickering 
glare  appeared  to  reel  and  stagger — when  scores  of  objects,  never  seen 
before,  burst  out  upon  the  view,  and  things  the  most  familiar  put  on  some 
new  aspect — then  the  mob  began  to  join  the  whirl,  and  with  loud  yells, 
and  shouts,  and  clamor,  such  as  happily  is  seldom  heard,  bestirred  them- 
selves to  fe>d  the  lire,  and  keep  it  at  its  height. 


DICKENS.  237 


Although  the  heat  was  so  intense  that  the  paint  on  the  houses  over 
against  the  prison  parched  and  crackled  up,  and  swelling  into  boils,  as  it 
were,  from  excess  of  torture,  broke  and  crumbled  away;  although  the  glass 
fell  from  the  window-sashes,  and  the  lead  and  iron  on  the  roofs  blistered 
the  incautious  hand  that  touched  them,  and  the  sparrows  in  the  eaves 
took  wing,  and,  rendered  giddy  by  the  smoke,  fell  fluttering  down  upon 
the  blazing  pile;  still  the  fire  was  tended  unceasingly  by  busy  hands,  and 
round  it  men  were  going  always.  They  never  slackened  in  their  zeal,  or 
kept  aloof,  but  pressed  upon  the  flames  so  hard,  that  those  in  front  had 
much  ado  to  save  themselves  from  being  thrust  in ;  if  one  man  swooned  or 
dropped,  a  dozen  struggled  for  his  place,  and  that,  although  they  knew  the 
pain,  and  thirst,  and  pressure  to  be  unendurable.  Those  who  fell  down  in 
fainting-fits  and  were  not  crushed  or  burnt,  were  carried  to  an  inn-yard 
close  at  hand,  and  dashed  with  water  from  a  pump,  of  which  buckets  full 
were  passed  from  man  to  man  among  the  crowd ;  but  such  was  the  strong 
desire  of  all  to  drink,  and  such  the  fighting  to  be  first  that,  for  the  most 
part,  the  whole  contents  were  spilled  upon  the  ground,  without  the  lips  of 
one  man  being  moistened. 

Meanwhile,  and  in  the  midst  of  all  the  war  and  outcry,  those  who  were 
nearest  to  the  pile  heaped  up  again  the  burning  fragments  that  came 
toppling  down,  and  raked  the  fire  about  the  door,  which,  although  a  sheet 
of  flame,  was  still  a  door  fast  locked  and  barred,  and  kept  them  out.  Great 
pieces  of  blazing  wood  were  passed,  besides,  above  the  people's  heads  to 
such  as  stood  about  the  ladder,  and  some  of  them,  climbing  up  to  the  top- 
most stave,  and  holding  on  with  one  hand  by  the  prison  wall,  exerted  all 
their  skill  and  force  to  cast  these  fire-brands  on  the  roof,  or  down  into  the 
yards  within.  In  many  instances  their  efforts  were  successful;  which 
occasioned  a  new  and  appalling  addition  to  the  horror  of  the  scene;  for 
the  prisoners  within,  seeing  from  between  their  bars  that  the  fire  caught  in 
many  places  and  thrived  fiercely,  and  being  all  locked  up  in  strong  cells 
for  the  night,  began  to  know  that  they  were  in  danger  of  being  burnt  alive. 
This  terrible  fear,  spreading  from  cell  to  cell,  and  from  yard  to  yard,  vented 
itself  in  such  dismal  cries  and  wailings,  and  in  such  dreadful  shrieks  for 
help,  that  the  whole  jail  resounded  with  the  noise;  which  was  loudly 
heard,  even  above  the  shouting  of  the  mob  and  roaring  of  the  flames,  and 
was  so  full  of  agony  and  despair,  that  it  made  the  boldest  tremble 

In  June,  1841,  Dickens  visited  Scotland,  acquainting  himself  with 
its  wildest  Highland  scenery ;  and,  at  the  invitation  of  distinguished 
citizens,  partook  of  a  public  dinner  in  his  honor  in  Edinburgh. 
This  trip  was  followed,  the  next  year,  by  a  first  visit  to  America, 
during  which  he  passed  through  the  principal  cities  of  Canada,  and 
also  those  of  the  United  States  as  far  to  the  south-west  as  St.  Louis. 
Everywhere  he  realized  that  his  fame  as  a  novelist  had  preceded 
him,  and  his  reception  was  rendered  even  annoyingly  cordial  and 
ceremonious.  The  succeeding  fall  brought  out,  as  the  result  of 
his  observations  of  scenery,  institutions,  and  customs,  his  American 
Notes. 

The  first  number  of  Martin  Chuzzlewit  appeared  in  January,  1843, 
the  entire  work  occupying  him  until  midsummer  of  the  next  year. 
From  this  volume,  as  another  sample  of  Dickens'  graphic  and 


238  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

minute  word-painting,  though  of  a  different  sort   from  the  last 
quoted,  we  instance  his  description  of 

THE  WIND. 

An  evening  wind  uprose  too,  and  the  slighter  branches  cracked  and 
rattled  as  they  moved  in  skeleton  dances  to  its  moaning  music.  The 
withering  leaves,  no  longer  quiet,  hurried  to  and  fro  in  search  of  shelter 
from  its  chill  pursuit;  the  laborer  unyoked  his  horses,  and  with  head  bent 
down,  trudged  briskly  home  beside  them ;  and  from  the  cottage  windows 
lights  began  to  glance  and  wink  upon  the  darkening  fields. 

Then  the  village  forge  came  out  in  all  its  bright  importance.  The  lusty 
bellows  roared  Ha,  ha!  to  the  clear  fire,  which  roared  in  turn,  and  bade  the 
shining  sparks  dance  gaily  to  the  merry  clinking  of  the  hammers  on  the 
anvil.  The  gleaming  iron,  in  its  emulation,  sparkled  too,  and  shed  its  red- 
hot  gems  around  profusely.  .  .  . 

Out  upon  the  angry  wind !  how  from  sighing,  it  began  to  bluster  round 
the  merry  forge,  banging  at  the  wicket,  and  grumbling  in  the  chimney,  as 
if  it  bullied  the  jolly  bellows  for  doing  anything  to  order.  And  what  an 
impotent  swaggerer  it  was  too,  for  all  its  noise:  for  if  it  had  any  influence 
on  that  hoarse  companion,  it  was  but  to  make  him  roar  his  cheerful  song 
the  louder,  and  by  consequence  to  make  the  fire  burn  the  brighter,  and  the 
sparks  to  dance  more  gaily  yet:  at  length,  they  whizzed  so  madly  round 
and  round,  that  it  was  too  much  for  a  surly  wind  to  bear;  so  off  it  flew 
with  a  howl,  giving  the  old  sign  before  the  ale-house  door  such  a  cufFas  it 
went,  that  the  Blue  Dragon  was  more  rampant  than  usual  ever  afterwards, 
and  indeed,  before  Christmas,  reared  clean  out  of  his  crazy  frame. 

It  was  small  tyranny  for  a  respectable  wind  to  go  wreaking  its  vengeance 
on  such  poor  creatures  as  the  fallen  leaves;  but  this  wind  happening  to 
come  up  with  a  great  heap  of  them  just  after  venting  its  humor  on  the 
insulted  Dragon,  did  so  disperse  and  scatter  them  that  they  fled  away, 
pell-mell,  some  here,  some  there,  rolling  over  each  other,  whirling  round 
and  round  upon  their  thin  edges,  taking  frantic  flights  into  the  air,  and 
playing  all  manner  of  extraordinary  gambols  in  the  extremity  of  their 
distress.  Nor  was  this  enough  for  its  malicious  fury ;  for  not  content  with 
driving  them  abroad,  it  charged  small  parties  of  them  and  hunted  them 
into  the  wheelwright's  saw-pit,  and  below  the  planks  and  timbers  in  the 
yard,  and,  scattering  the  saw-dust  in  the  air,  it  looked  for  them  underneath, 
and  when  it  did  meet  with  any,  whew!  how  it  drove  them  on  and  followed 
at  their  heels ! 

The  scared  leaves  only  flew  the  faster  for  all  this,  and  a  giddy  chase  it 
was ;  for  they  got  into  unfrequented  places,  where  there  was  no  outlet,  and 
where  their  pursuer  kept  them  edging  round  and  round  at  his  pleasure; 
and  they  crept  under  the  eaves  of  houses,  and  clung  tightly  to  the  sides  of 
hayricks,  like  bats;  and  tore  in  at  open  chamber  windows,  and  cowered 
close  to  hedges;  and  in  short  went  anywhere  for  safety. 

But  the  oddest  freak  they  achieved  was,  to  take  advantage  of  the  sudden 
opening  of  Mr.  Pecksniff's  front  door,  to  dash  wildly  into  his  passage; 
whither  the  wind,  following  close  upon  them,  and  finding  the  back  door 
open,  incontinently  blew  but  the  lighted  candle  held  by  Miss  Pecksniff 
and  slammed  the  front  door  against  Mr.  Pecksniff,  who  was  at  that  moment 
entering,  with  such  violence,  that  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  he  lay  on  his 


DICKENS.  239 


back  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps.  Being  by  this  time  weary  of  such  trifling 
performances,  the  boisterous  rover  hurried  away  rejoicing,  roaring  over 
moor  and  meadow,  hill  and  flat,  until  it  got  out  to  sea,  where  it  met  with 
other  winds  similarly  disposed,  and  made  a  night  of  it. 

The  year  1843  was  memorable,  too,  as  inaugurating  in  (he 
Christmas  Carol,  the  annual  advent  of  his  Christmas  stories.  The 
next  year,  and  a  part  also  of  1845,  found  Dickens  enjoying  a 
delightful,  and  much-needed,  too,  season  of  rest  and  recreation  in 
Italy,  principally  at  Genoa,  with  no  literary  product  save  the 
Chimes — a  second  Christmas  book.  The  remainder  of  the' latter 
year  was  passed  in  England,  bringing,  at  its  close,  to  the  delight 
of  the  public,  a  third  holiday  annual — the  Cricket  on  the  Hearth. 

The  glimpse  he  had  caught  of  Switzerland,  011  his  late  return 
home,  filled  Dickens  with  an  ardent  desire  to  gain  a  more  perfect 
experience  of  the  grand  scenery  and  hardy  life  of  that  country ; 
and  the  next  year  (1846),  with  the  exception  of  a  brief  sojourn  in 
Paris,  was  devoted  to  this  eject.  It  was  while  here — at  Lausanne 
— that  his  fourth  Christmas  Story — The  Battle  of  Life,  was  written, 
and  Dombey  and  Son  was  begun.  The  latter  was  completed  in 
England,  in  the  spring  of  1848.  In  this  work  we  meet  with 
Dickens'  masterpiece  of  pathos,  in  the 

DEATH  OF  LITTLE  PAUL. 

Paul  had  never  risen  from  his  little  bed.  He  lay  there,  listening  to  the 
noises  in  the  street,  quite  tranquilly ;  not  caring  much  how  the  time  went, 
but  watching  it  and  watching  everything  about  him  with  observing  eyes. 

When  the  sunbeams  struck  into  his  room  through  the  rustling  blinds, 
and  quivered  on  the  opposite  wall  like  golden  water,  he  knew  that  evening 
was  coming  on,  and  that  the  sky  was  red  and  beautiful.  As  the  reflection 
died  away,  and  a  gloom  went  creeping  up  the  wall,  he  watched  it  deepen, 
deepen,  deepen,  into  night.  Then  he  thought  how  the  long  streets  were 
dotted  with  lamps,  and  how  the  peaceful  stars  were  shining  overhead.  His 
fancy  had  a  strange  tendency  to  wander  to  the  river,  which  he  knew  was 
flowing  through  the  great  city:  and  now  he  thought  how  black  it  was,  and 
how  deep  it  would  look,  reflecting  the  hosts  of  stars;  and  more  than  all, 
how  steadily  it  rolled  away  to  meet  the  sea. 

As  it  grew  later  in  the  night,  and  footsteps  in  the  street  became  so  rare 
that  he  could  hear  them  coming,  count  them  as  they  paused,  and  lose  them 
in  the  hollow  distance,  he  would  He  and  watch  the  many-colored  rings 
about  the  candle,  and  wait  patiently  for  day.  His  only  trouble  was  the 
swift  and  rapid  river.  He  felt  forced,  sometimes,  to  try  to  stop  it — to  stem 
it  with  his  childish  hands — or  choke  its  way  with  sand ;  and  when  he  saw 
it  coming  on,  resistless,  he  cried  out!  But  a  word  from  Florence,  who  wa» 
always  at  his  side,  restored  him  to  himself;  and  leaning  his  poor  head 
upon  her  breast,  he  told  Floy  of  his  dream,  and  smiled. 

*****  **** 

"  Floy ! "  he  said,  "  what  is  that  ?  " 

"Where,  dearest?" 


240  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

11  There !  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed." 

"  There's  nothing  there,  except  papa!" 

The  figure  lifted  up  its  head,  and  rose,  and  coming  to  the  bedside,  said: 
"  My  own  boy  !  Don't  you  know  me  ?  " 

Paul  looked  it  in  the  face,  and  thought,  was  this  his  father?  But  the 
face,  so  altered  to  his  thinking,  thrilled  while  he  gazed,  as  if  it  were  in 
pain ;  and  before  he  could  reach  out  both  his  hands  to  take  it  between 
them,  and  draw  it  towards  him,  the  figure  turned  aw:iy  quickly  from  the 
little  bed,  and  went  out  at  the  door 

One  night  he  had  been  thinking  of  his  mother,  and  her  picture  in  the 
drawing-room  down  stairs,  and  he  thought  she  must  have  loved  sweet 
Florence  better  than  his  father  did,  to  have  held  her  in  her  arms  when  she 
felt  that  she  was  dying;  for  even  he,  her  brother,  who  had  such  dear  love 
for  her  could  have  no  greater  wish  than  that.  The  train  of  thought  sug- 
gested to  him  to  inquire  if  he  had  ever  seen  his  mother;  for  he  could  not 
remember  whether  they  had  told  him  yes  or  no,  the  river  running  very 
fast,  and  confusing  his  mind. 

"  Floy,  did  I  ever  see  mamma  ?  " 

"  No,  darling ;  why  ?  " 

"  Did  I  never  see  any  kind  face,  like  mamma's,  looking  at  me  when  I  was 
a  baby,  Floy  ?  " 

He  asked,  incredulously,  as  if  he  had  some  vision  of  a  face  before  him. 

"Oh,  yes,  dear!" 

"Whose,  Floy?" 

"  Your  old  nurse's.     Often." 

"And  where  is  my  old  nurse?"  said  Paul.  "Is  she  dead,  too?  Floy, 
are  we  all  dead,  except  you  ?  " 

There  was  a  hurry  in  the  room  for  an  instant — longer,  perhaps;  but  it 
seemed  no  more :  then  all  was  still  again ;  and  Florence,  with  her  face 
quite  colorless,  but  smiling,  held  his  head  upon  her  arm.  Her  arm  trembled 
very  much. 

"  Show  me  that  old  nurse,  Floy,  if  you  please ! " 

"She  is  not  here,  darling.     She  shall  come  to-morrow." 

"  Thank  you,  Floy ! " 

Paul  closed  his  eyes  with  those  words,  and  fell  asleep.  When  he  awoke 
the  sun  was  high,  and  the  broad  day  was  clear  and  warm.  He  lay  a  little, 
looking  at  the  windows,  which  were  open,  and  the  curtains  rustling  in  the 
air,  and  waving  to  and  fro:  then  he  said,  "Floy,  is  it  to-morrow?  Is  she 
come  ?  " 

Some  one  seemed  to  go  in  quest  of  her.  Perhaps  it  was  Susan.  Paul 
thought  he  heard  her  telling  him,  when  he  had  closed  his  eyes  again,  that 
she  would  soon  be  back;  but  he  did  not  open  them  to  see.  She  kept  her 
word — perhaps  she  had  never  been  away — but  the  next  thing  that  happened 
was  a  noise  of  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  and  then  Paul  woke — woke  mind  and 
body — and  sat  upright  in  his  bed.  He  saw  them  now  about  him.  There 
was  no  grey  mist  before  them,  as  there  had  been  sometimes  in  the  night. 
He  knew  them  every  one,  and  called  them  by  their  names. 

"And  who  is  this?  Is  this  my  old  nurse?"  said  the  child,  regarding 
with  a  radiant  smile  a  figure  coming  in. 

Yes,  yes.     No  other  stranger  would  have  shed  those  tears  at  sight  of 


DICKENS.  241 


him,  and  called  him  her  dear  boy,  her  pretty  boy,  her  own  poor  blighted 
child.  No  other  woman  would  have  stooped  down  by  his  bed,  and  taken 
up  his  wasted  hand,  and  put  it  to  her  lips  and  breast,  as  one  who  had  some 
right  to  fondle  it.  No  other  woman  would  have  so  forgotten  everybody 
there  but  him  and  Floy,  and  been  so  full  of  tenderness  and  pity. 

"  Floy!  this  is  a  kind  good  face  1"  said  Paul.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  it  again. 
Don't  go  away,  old  nurse !  Stay  here ! " 

His  senses  were  all  quickened,  and  he  heard  a  name  he  knew. 

"  Who  was  that  who  said  'Walter'?"  he  asked,  looking  round.  "Some 
one  said  Walter.  Is  he  here  ?  I  should  like  to  see  him  very  much." 

Nobody  replied  directly;  but  his  father  soon  said  to  Susan,  "Call  him 
back,  then  :  let  him  come  up ! "  After  a  short  pause  of  expectation,  during 
which  he  looked  with  smiling  interest  and  wonder  on  his  nurse,  and  saw 
that  she  had  not  forgotten  Floy,  Walter  was  brought  into  the  room.  His 
open  face  and  manner,  and  his  cheerful  eyes,  had  always  made  him  a 
favorite  with  Paul ;  and  when  Paul  saw  him,  he  stretched  out  his  hand, 
and  said,  "  Good-bye  ! " 

"Good-bye,  my  child  !"  cried  Mrs.  Pipchin,  hurrying  to  his  bed's  head. 
"Not  good-bye?" 

For  an  instant  Paul  looked  at  her  with  the  wistful  face  with  which  he 
had  so  often  gazed  upon  her  in  his  corner  by  the  fire.  "Ah,  yes/'  he  said 
placidly,  "good-bye!  Walter  dear,  good-bye!" — turning  his  head  to  where 
he  stood,  and  putting  out  his  hand  again,  "  Where  is  papa  ?  " 

He  felt  his  father's  breath  upon  his  cheek  before  the  words  had  parted 
from  his  lips. 

"Remember  Walter,  dear  papa,"  he  whispered,  looking  in  his  face. 
"Remember  Walter.  I  was  fond  of  Walter!"  The  feeble  hand  waved 
in  the  air,  as  if  it  cried  "  good-bye ! "  to  Walter  once  again. 

"  Now  lay  me  down,"  he  said,  "  and  Floy  come  close  to  me,  and  let  me 
see  you ! " 

Sister  and  brother  wound  their  arms  around  each  other,  and  the  golden 
light  came  streaming  in,  and  fell  upon  them,  locked  together. 

"How  fast  the  river  runs,  between  its  green  banks  and  the  rushes,  Floy  ! 
But  it's  very  near  the  sea.  I  hear  the  waves!  They  always  said  so  I" 

Presently  he  told  her  that  the  motion  of  the  boat  upon  the  stream  was 
lulling  him  to  rest.  How  green  the  banks  were  now,  how  bright  the 
flowers  growing  on  them,  and  how  tall  the  rushes!  Now  the  boat  was  out 
at  sea,  but  gliding  smoothly  on.  And  now  there  was  a  shore  before  him. 
Who  stood  on  the  bank  ! — 

He  put  his  hands  together,  as  he  had  been  used  to  do  at  his  prayers. 
He  did  not  remove  his  arms  to  do  it ;  but  they  saw  him  fold  them  so, 
behind  her  neck. 

"  Mamma  is  like  you,  Floy.  I  know  her  by  the  face !  But  tell  them 
that  the  print  upon  the  stairs  at  school  is  not  divine  enough.  The  light 
about  the  head  is  shining  on  me  as  I  go ! " 

The  golden  ripple  on  the  wall  came  back  again,  and  nothing  else  stirred 
in  the  room.  The  old,  old  fashion !  The  fashion  that  came  in  with  our 
first  garments,  and  will  last  unchanged  until  our  race  has  run  its  course, 
and  the  wide  firmament  is  rolled  up  like  a  scroll.  The  old,  old  fashion — 
Death!.... 

21  Q 


242  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

So  thoroughly  occupied  was  Dickens  with  writing  the  last-named 
novel,  that  his  Christmas  story  for  1847,  though  actually  begun  in 
the  fall  of  that  year,  was  necessarily  laid  aside  until  the  next  year, 
when  it  appeared  as  The  Haunted  Man.  David  Copperfield  was  pro- 
jected in  the  summer  of  1849,  while  Dickens  was  enjoying  his  first 
sea-side  holiday,  and  concluded  in  the  latter  part  of  the  following 
year.  About  the  same  time,  a  project  long  revolved  in  our  author's 
mind  arrived  at  maturity,  in  the  establishment  of  a  miscellany  of 
general  literature,  called  "  Household  Words,"  of  which  he  became 
the  editor.  Through  the  pages  of  this  periodical  and  its  successor, 
"All  the  Year  Eound"  (begun  in  1860),  were  given  to  the  world, 
chapter  by  chapter,  Bleak  House  (1852-53) — an  exposure  of  Chan- 
cery Court  abuses;  Hard  Times  (1854)— a  blow  at  the  false  civiliza- 
tion of  the  present ;  Little  Dorritt  (1856) — a  picture  of  unselfishness, 
as  well  as  an  exhibit  of  the  evils  of  debtors'  prisons  ;  A  Tale  of  Two 
Cities  (1859-60) — a  tragical  diorama  of  revolutionary  days  in  France; 
Great  Expectations  (1861-62) ;  Our  Mutual  Friend  (1865) ;  and  The 
Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood — the  work  from  the  midst  of  which  the 
master's  hand  was  so  suddenly  withdrawn  by  death,  June  9,  1870. 
The  episodes  of  relaxation  from  literary  toil  and  the  leading  per- 
sonal incidents  of  the  later  years  of  our  author's  life  were  a  second 
visit  to  Switzerland  and  Italy  in  1853,  several  visits  to  Boulogne 
and  Paris  during  the  years  1853-56,  the  purchase  and  occupation 
of  Gadshill  Place  in  1856,  several  reading  tours,  and  a  second  visit 
to  America  in  1867. 

"  Dickens  is  a  poet;  he  is  as  much  at  home  in  the  imaginative 
world  as  in  the  actual.  Objects  take  their  hue  from  the  thoughts 
of  his  characters.  His  imagination  is  so  lively,  that  it  carries  every- 
thing with  it  in  the  path  which  it  chooses.  If  the  character  is  happy, 
the  stones,  flowers,  and  clouds  must  be  happy  too ;  if  he  is  sad,  nature 
must  weep  with  him.  Even  to  the  ugly  houses  in  the  street,  all 
speak.  The  style  runs  through  a  swarm  of  visions  ;  it  breaks  out 
into  the  strangest  oddities Dickens  does  not  hunt  after  quaint- 
nesses  ;  they  come  to  him.  His  excessive  imagination  is  like  a  string 
too  tightly  stretched  ;  it  produces  of  itself,  without  any  violent  shock, 
sounds  not  otherwise  heard 

"The  imagination  of  Dickens  is  like  that  of  monomaniacs.  To 
plunge  one's  self  into  an  idea,  to  be  absorbed  by  it,  to  see  nothing 
else,  to  repeat  it  under  a  hundred  forms,  to  enlarge  it,  to  carry  it 
thus  enlarged  to  the  eye  of  the  spectator,  to  dazzle  and  overwhelm 
him  with  it,  to  stamp  it  upon  him  so  tenacious  and  impressive  that 
he  can  never  again  tear  it  from  his  memory, — these  are  the  great 

features  of  this  imagination  and  style Therefore  Dickens  is 

admirable  in  the  depicture  of  hallucinations.  We  see  that  he  feela 


DICKENS.  243 


himself  those  of  his  characters,  that  he  is  engrossed  by  their  ideas, 
that  he  enters  into  their  madness.  As  an  Englishman  and  a  moral- 
ist, he  has  described  remorse  frequently.  Perhaps  it  may  be  said 
that  he  makes  a  scarecrow  of  it,  and  that  an  artist  is  wrong  to  trans- 
form himself  into  an  assistant  of  the  policeman  and  the  preacher. 
What  of  that?  The  portrait  of  Jonas  Chuzzlewit  is  so  terrible,  that 
we  may  pardon  it  for  being  useful 

"  Dickens  does  not  perceive  great  things ;  this  is  the  second  feature 
of  his  imagination.  Enthusiasm  seizes  him  in  connection  with 
everything,  especially  in  connection  with  vulgar  (common)  objects, 
a  curiosity-shop,  a  sign-post,  a  town-crier.  He  has  vigor,  he  does 
not  attain  beauty He  will  be  lost,  like  the  painters  of  his  coun- 
try, in  the  minute  and  impassioned  observation  of  small  things ; 
he  will  have  no  love  of  beautiful  forms  and  fine  colors 

"When  the  mind,  with  rapt  attention,  penetrates  the  minute 
details  of  a  precise  image,  joy  and  grief  shake  the  whole  man. 
Dickens  has  this  attention,  and  sees  these  details :  this  is  why  he 
meets  everywhere  with  objects  of  exaltation.  He  never  abandons 
his  impassioned  tone;  he  never  rests  in  a  natural  style,  and  in 
simple  narrative ;  he  only  rails  or  weeps ;  he  writes  but  satires  or 
elegies.  He  has  the  feverish  sensibility  of  a  woman  who  laughs 
loudly,  or  melts  into  tears  at  the  sudden  shock  of  the  slightest 
occurrence.  This  impassioned  style  is  extremely  potent,  and  to  it 
may  be  attributed  half  the  glory  of  Dickens 

"  This  sensibility  can  hardly  have  more  than  two  issues — laughter 
and  tears.  There  are  others,  but  they  are  only  reached  by  lofty 
eloquence;  they  are  the  path  to  sublimity,  and  from  this  path 
Dickens  is  cut  off.  Yet  there  is  no  writer  who  knows  better  how 
to  touch  and  melt;  he  makes  us  weep — absolutely  shed  tears; 
before  reading  him  we  did  not  know  there  was  so  much  pity  in 
the  heart.  The  grief  of  a  child,  who  wishes  to  be  loved  by  his 
father,  and  whom  his  father  does  not  love ;  the  despairing  love  and 
slow  death  of  a  poor  half-imbecile  young  man :  all  these  pictures 
of  secret  grief  leave  an  ineffaceable  impression.  The  tears  which 
he  sheds  are  genuine,  and  comparison  is  their  only  source. 

"This  same  writer  is  the  most  railing,  the  most  comic,  the  most 
jocose  of  English  authors.  And  it  is  moreover  a  singular  gaiety! 
It  is  the  only  kind  which  would  harmonize  with  this  impassioned 
sensibility.  Wounded  by  misfortunes  and  vices,  Dickens  avenges 
himself  by  ridicule.  He  does  not  paint,  he  punishes.  Nothing 
could  be  more  damaging  than  those  long  chapters  of  sustained 
irony,  in  which  the  sarcasm  is  pressed,  line  after  line,  more  san- 
guinary and  piercing  in  the  chosen  adversary He  makes 


244  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

hypocrisy  so  deformed  and  monstrous,  that  his  hypocrite  ceases  to 
resemble  a  man  ;  you  would  call  him  one  of  those  fantastic  figures 
whose  nose  is  greater  than  his  body.  This  extravagant  comicality 

springs  from  excess  of  imagination 

"  In  reality,  the  novels  of  Dickens  can  be  reduced  to  one  phrase, 
to  wit :  Be  good,  and  love ;  there  is  genuine  joy  only  in  emotions 
of  the  heart;  sensibility  in  the  whole  man.  Leave  science  to  the 
wise,  pride  to  the  nobles,  luxury  to  the  rich  ;  have  compassion  on 
humble  wretchedness;  the  smallest  and  most  despised  being  may 
in  himself  be  worth  as  much  as  thousands  of  the  powerful  and 
the  proud.  Take  care  not  to  bruise  the  delicate  souls  which 
flourish  in  all  conditions,  under  all  costumes,  in  all  ages.  Believe 
that  humanhvy,  pity,  forgiveness,  are  the  finest  things  in  man ; 
believe  that  intimacy,  expansion,  tenderness,  tears,  are  the  finest 
things  in  the  world.  To  live  is  nothing ;  to  be  powerful,  learned, 
illustrious,  is  little ;  to  be  useful  is  not  enough.  He  alone  has  lived 
and  is  a  man  who  has  wept  at  the  remembrance  of  a  benefit,  given 
or  received."* 

*  Taine's  English  Literature,  Vol.  II. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY  was  born  in  1811,  at 
Calcutta.  His  father  dying  four  years  after,  his  mother  re- 
moved with  her  son  to  England  in  1817.  When  about  twelve 
years  of  age  he  was  sent  to  the  Charterhouse  school,  from 
whence,  about  1828,  he  passed  to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 
Among  his  fellow-students  at  Trinity  was  the  poet  Tennyson, 
with  whom  he  became  intimate,  and  for  whom  and  for  whose 
poetry  he  cherished  a  life-long  admiration.  Thackeray's  literary 
career  began  while  at  college,  in  his  part  editorship  of  a  series 
of  humorous  papers,  under  the  title  of  "  The  Snob ;  a  Literary 
and  Scientific  Journal." 

Though  originally  intended  for  the  bar,  Thackeray's  bent  was 
toward  art ;  for  ministering  to  which  he  resided  for  some  time 
first  at  Rome,  and  afterwards  at  Paris.  His  happiest  attain- 
ment in  this  direction,  however,  consisted  in  those  off-hand 
pen-and-ink  sketches  of  character  and  situation,  such  as,  at  a 
later  period,  served  to  illustrate  his  nobler  literary  productions. 

It  was  in  1834  that  Thackeray  became  a  contributor  to 
"  Fraser's  Magazine,"  his  articles  relating  chiefly  to  the  Fine 
Arts  and  to  his  experiences  in  Paris.  Two  years  later  he  en- 
gaged, for  a  short  time,  in  the  publication  in  London  of  a  news- 
paper called  the  "  Constitutional  and  Public  Ledger."  In  1840 
he  collected  certain  of  his  sketches,  previously  contributed  to 
"  Fraser's  "  and  other  magazines,  into  a  volume,  with  the  title 
of  The  Paris  Sketch  Book — his  first  independent  publication. 

Sketches,  stories,  a  ballad,  notes  of  a  journey  from  Cornhill 
to  Grand  Cairo,  and  Christmas  books — published  under  the  droll 
nom  de  plume  of  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh,  made  up  the  sum 
of  Thackeray's  literary  efforts  for  the  next  six  years.  From 
February,  1847,  to  July,  1848,  was  published,  in  monthly  num- 
bers, Vanity  Fair,  the  work  in  which  Thackeray  first  caught 
21*  "  245 


246  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

the  ear  of  the  great  public.  In  1849  he  gave  to  the  world,  in 
two  volumes,  his  second  fiction,  namely:  History  of  Pendennis, 
also,  during  the  same  year,  Dr.  Birch  and  Rebecca  and  Rowena. 

Two  years  later,  Thackeray  appeared  before  the  public  in  a 
new  character, — that  of  a  lecturer,  his  subjects  being  the 
English  Humorists.  His  experiment  proved  surprisingly  suc- 
cessful in  England  ;  and,  a  year  later,  was  the  means  of  intro- 
ducing him  personally  to  his  many  admirers  in  the  United 
States.  In  1852  The  Adventures  of  Henry  Esmond,  complete 
jn  three  volumes,  made  its  appearance.  The  most  striking 
feature  of  the  work  was  a  most  elaborate  imitation  of  the  style 
and  mode  of  thought  of  the  time  of  Queen  Anne'e  reign.  The 
year  1855  was  productive  of  The  Newcomes,  which  contained 
traces  of  kindlier  and  lovelier  characterization  than  any  he  had 
yet  given. 

A  second  visit  to  the  United  States,  equally  successful  with 
his  first,  both  as  regards  its  literary  and  its  pecuniary  features, 
was  made  in  1856.  The  subject  of  his  lectures  was  the  four 
Georges.  The  Virginians,  a  tale  of  the  last  century,  and  illus- 
trated by  the  author,  was  commenced  in  monthly  parts,  in  the 
fall  of  1857.  Three  years  later,  Thackeray  realized  a  long- 
cherished  design  in  the  starting  of  the  "Cornhill  Magazine,"  in 
which  were  given  to  the  public  the  series  of  Roundabout  Papers, 
and  the  stories  of  Lovel  the  Widower  and  Philip  on  his  Way 
through  the  World. 

Thackeray  died  December  24,  1863,  leaving  unaccomplished 
the  promise  made  a  month  or  two  before  in  the  "  Cornhill,"  that 
in  the  early  numbers  of  that  magazine  for  the  year  1864  he 
would  commence  "  a  new  serial  story." 

From  Vanity  Fair,  Vol.  I.,  we  produce 

A  QUARREL  ABOUT  AN  HEIRESS. 

Love  may  be  felt  for  any  young  lady  endowed  with  such  qualities  as 
Miss  Swartz  possessed;  and  a  great  dream  of  ambition  entered  into  old 
Mr.  Osborne's  soul,  which  she  was  to  realize.  He  encouraged,  with  the 
utmost  enthusiasm  and  friendliness,  his  daughter's  amiable  attachment  to 
the  young  heiress,  and  protested  that  it  gave  him  the  sincerest  pleasure  as 
a  father,  to  see  the  love  of  his  girls  so  well  disposed. 

"You  won't  find,"  he  would  say  to  Miss  Rhoda,  "that  splendor  and 
rank  to  which  you  are  accustomed  at  the  West  End,  my  dear  Miss,  at  our 
humble  mansion  in  Kussell  Square.  My  daughters  are  plain,  disinterested 


THACKERAY.  247 


girls,  but  their  hearts  are  in  the  right  place,  and  they've  conceived  an 
attachment  for  you  which  does  them  honor — I  say  which  does  them  honor. 
I'm  a  plain,  simple,  humble  British  merchant — an  honest  one,  as  my 
respected  friends  Hulker  and  Bullock  will  vouch,  who  were  the  correspond- 
ents of  your  late  lamented  father.  You'll  find  us  a  united,  simple,  happy, 
and,  I  think  I  may  say,  respected  family — a  plain  table,  a  plain  people, 
but  a  warm  welcome,  my  dear  Miss  Rhoda — Rhoda,  let  me  say,  for  my 
heart  warms  to  you,  it  does,  really.  I'm  a  frank  man,  and  I  like  you.  A 
glass  of  Champagne  !  Hicks,  Champagne  to  Miss  Swartz." 

There  is  little  doubt  that  old  Osborne  believed  all  he  said,  and  that  the 
girls  were  quite  earnest  in  their  protestations  of  affection  for  Miss  Swartz. 
People  in  Vanity  Fair  fasten  on  to  rich  folks  quite  naturally.  If  the 
simplest  people  are  disposed  to  look  not  a  little  kindly  on  great  Prosperity 
(for  I  defy  any  member  of  the  British  public  to  say  that  the  notion  of 
"Wealth  has  not.  something  awful  and  pleasing  to  him ;  and  you,  if  you  are 
told  that  the  man  next  you  at  dinner  has  got  half  a  million,  not  to  look  at 
him  with  a  certain  interest);  if  the  simple  look  benevolently  on  money,  how 
much  more  do  your  old  worldlings  regard  it!  Their  affections  rush  out 
to  meet  and  welcome  money.  Their  kind  sentiments  awaken  spontaneously 
towards  the  interesting  possessors  of  it.  I  know  some  respectable  people 
who  don't  consider  themselves  at  liberty  to  indulge  in  friendship  for  any 
individual  who  has  not  a  certain  competency,  or  place  in  society.  They 
give  a  lease  to  their  feelings  on  proper  occasions.  And  the  proof  is,  that 
the  major  part  of  the  Osborne  family,  who  had  not,  in  fifteen  years,  been 
able  to  get  up  a  hearty  regard  for  Amelia  Sedley,  became  as  fond  of  Miss 
Swartz  in  the  course  of  a  single  evening  as  the  most  romantic  advocate  of 
friendship  at  first  sight  could  desire. 

What  a  match  for  George  she'd  be  (the  sisters  and  Miss  Wirt  agreed), 
and  how  much  better  than  that  insignificant  little  Amelia!  Such  a  dashing 
young  fellow  as  he  is,  with  his  good  looks,  rank,  and  accomplishments, 
would  be  the  very  husband  for  her.  Visions  of  balls  in  Portland  Place, 
presentations  at  Court,  and  introductions  to  half  the  peerage,  filled  the 
minds  of  the  young  ladies,  who  talked  of  nothing  but  George  and  his 
grand  acquaintances  to  their  beloved  new  friend. 

Old  Osborne  thought  she  would  be  a  great  match,  too,  for  his  son.  He 
should  leave  the  army;  he  should  go  into  Parliament;  he  should  cut  a 
figure  in  the  fashion  "and  in  the  state.  His  blood  boiled  with  honest 
British  exultation,  as  he  saw  the  name  of  Osborne  ennobled  In  the  person 
of  his  son,  and  thought  that  he  might  be  the  progenitor  of  a  glorious  line 
of  baronets.  He  worked  in  the  City  and  on  'Change,  until  he  knew  every- 
thing relating  to  the  fortune  of  the  heiress,  how  her  money  was  placed,  and 
where  her  estates  lay.  Young  Fred  Bullock,  one  of  his  chief  informants, 
would  have  liked  to  make  a  bid  for  her  himself  (it  was  so  the  young 
banker  expressed  it),  only  he  was  booked  to  Maria.  Osborne.  But  not 
being  able  to  secure  her  as  a  wife,  the  disinterested  Fred  quite  approved 
of  her  as  a  sister-in-law.  "  Let  George  cut  in  directly  and  win  her,"  was 
his  advice.  "  Strike  while  the  iron's  hot,  you  know— while  she's  fresh  to 

the  town:  in  a  few  weeks  some  d d  fellow  from  the  West  End  will 

corne  in  with  a  title  and  a  rotten  rent-roll  and  cut  all  us  City  men  out,  as 
Lord  Fitzrufus  did  last  year  with  Miss  Grogram,  who  was  actually  engaged 
to  Podder,  of  Podder  &  Brown's.  The  sooner  it  is  done  the  better,  Mr. 
Osborne;  them's  my  sentiments,"  the  wag  said;  though,  when  Osborne 
had  left  the  bank  parlor,  Mr.  Bullock  remembered  Amelia,  and  what  a 


248  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

pretty  girl  she  was,  and  how  attached  to  George  Osborne;  and  he  gave  up 
at  least  ten  seconds  of  his  valuable  time  to  regretting  the  misfortune  which 
had  befallen  that  unlucky  young  woman. 

While  thus  George  Osborne' s  good  feelings,  and  his  good  friend  and 
genius,  Dobbin,  were  carrying  back  the  truant  to  Amelia's  feet,  George's 
parent  and  sisters  were  arranging  this  splendid  match  for  him,  which  they 
never  dreamed  he  would  resist. 

When  the  elder  Osborne  gave  what  he  called  a  "  hint,"  there  was  no 
possibility  for  the  most  obtuse  to  mistake  his  meaning.  lie  called  kicking 
a  footman  down  stairs  a  hint  to  the  latter  to  leave  his  service.  With  his 
usual  frankness  and  delicacy  he  told  Mrs.  Haggistoun  that  he  would  give 
her  a  cheque  for  five  thousand  pounds  on  the  day  his  son  was  married  to 
her  ward  ;  and  called  that  proposal  a  hint,  and  considered  it  a  very  dex- 
terous piece  of  diplomacy.  He  gave  George  finally  such  another  hint 
regarding  the  heiress;  and  ordered  him  to  marry  her  out  of  hand,  as  lie 
would  have  ordered  his  butler  to  draw  a  cork,  or  his  clerk  to  write  a  letter. 

This  imperative  hint  disturbed  George  a  good  deal.  He  was  in  the  very 
first  enthusiasm  and  delight  of  his  second  courtship  of  Amelia,  which  was 
inexpressibly  sweet  to  him.  The  contrast  of  her  manners  and  appearance 
with  those  of  the  heiress,  made  the  idea  of  a  union  with  the  latter  appear 
doubly  ludicrous  and  odious.  Carriages  and  opera-boxes,  thought  lie; 
fancy  being  seen  in  them  by  the  side  of  such  a  mahogany  charmer  sis  that! 
Add  to  all,  that  the  junior  Osborne  was  quite  as  obstinate  as  the  Senior; 
when  he  wanted  a  thing,  quite  as  firm  in  resolution  to  get  it;  and  quite  as 
violent  when  angered,  as  his  father  in  his  most  .stern  moments.  .  .  . 

The  dark  object  of  the  conspiracy  into  which  the  chiefs  of  the  Osborne 
family  had  entered,  was  quite  ignorant  of  all  their  plans  regarding  her 
(which,  strange  to  say,  her  friend  and  chaperon  did  not  divulge),  and, 
taking  all  the  young  ladies'  flattery  for  genuine  sentiment,  and  being,  as 
we  have  before  had  occasion  to  show,  of  a  very  warm  and  impetuous 
nature,  responded  to  their  affection  with  quite  a  tropical  ardor.  And  if 
the  truth  may  be  told,  I  dare  say  that  she  too  had  some  selfish  attraction 
in  the  Russell  Square  house;  and  in  a  word,  thought  George  Osborne  a 
very  nice  young  man.  His  whiskers  had  made  an  impression  upon  her, 
on  the  very  first  night  she  beheld  them  at  the  ball  at  Messrs.  Hulkers; 
and,  as  we  know,  she  was  not  the  first  woman  who  had  been  charmed  by 
them.  George  had  an  air  at  once  swaggering  and  melancholy,  languid 
and  fierce.  He  looked  like  a  man  who  had  passions,  secrets,  and  private 
harrowing  griefs  and  adventures.  His  voice  was  rich  and  deep.  He  would 
say  it  was  a  warm  evening,  or  ask  his  partner  to  take  an  ice,  with  a  tone 
as  sad  and  confidential  as  if  he  were  breaking  her  mother's  death  to  her, 
or  preluding  a  declaration  of  love.  He  trampled  over  all  the  young  bucks 
of  his  father's  circle,  and  was  the  hero  among  those  third-rate  men.  Som^e 
few  sneered  at  him  and  hated  him.  Some,  like  Dobbin,  fanatically,  ad- 
mired him.  And  his  whiskers  had  begun  to  do  their  work,  and  to  curl 
themselves  round  the  affections  of  Miss  Swartz. 

Whenever  there  was  a  chance  of  meeting  him  in  Russell  Square,  that 
simple  and  good-natured  young  woman  was  quite  in  a  flurry  to  see  her 
dear  Miss  Osbornes.  She  went  to  great  expenses  in  new  gowns,  and 
bracelets,  and  bonnets,  and  in  prodigious  feathers.  She  adorned  her 
person  in  her  utmost  skill  to  please  the  Conqueror,  and  exhibited  all  her 
simple  accomplishments  to  win  his  favor.  The  girls  would  ask  her,  with 


THACKERAY.  249 


the  greatest  gravity,  for  a  little  music,  and  she  would  sing  her  three  songs 
and  play  her  two  little  pieces  as  often  as  ever  they  asked,  and  with  an 
always  increasing  pleasure  to  herself.  During  these  delectable  entertain- 
ments, Miss  Wirt  and  the  chaperon  sate  by,  and  conned  over  the  peerage, 
and  talked  about  the  nobility. 

The  day  after  George  had  his  hint  from  his  father,  and  a  short  time 
before  the  hour  of  dinner,  he  was  lolling  upon  a  sofa  in  the  drawing-room 
in  a  very  becoming  and  perfectly  natural  attitude  of  melancholy.  He  had 
been  to  pass  three  hours  witb  Amelia,  his  dear  little  Amelia,  at  Fulham; 
and  he  came  home  to  find  his  sisters  spread  in  starched  muslin  in  the 
drawing-room,  the  dowagers  cackling  in  the  background,  and  honest  Swartz 
in  her  favorite  amber-colored  satin,  with  turquoise  bracelets,  countless  rings, 
flowers,  feathers,  and  all  sorts  of  tags  and  girncracks,  about  as  elegantly 
decorated  as  a  she  chimney-sweep  on  May  day. 

The  girls,  after  vain  attempts  to  engage  him  in  conversation,  talked  about 
fashions  and  the  last  drawing-room  until  he  was  perfectly  sick  of  their 
chatter.  He  contrasted  their  behavior  with  little  Emmy's,  their  shrill 
voices  with  her  tender  ringing  tones;  their  attitudes  and  their  elbows  and 
their  starch,  with  her  humble  soft  movements  and  modest  graces.  Poor 
Swartz  was  seated  in  a  place  where  Emmy  had  been  accustomed  to  sit. 
Her  bejewelled  hands  lay  sprawling  in  her  amber  satin  lap.  Her  tags  and 
ear-rings  twinkled,  and  her  big  eyes  rolled  about.  She  was  doing  nothing 
with  perfect  contentment,  and  thinking  herself  charming.  Anything  so 
becoming  as  the  satin  the  sisters  had  never  seen. 

"  Dammy,"  George  said  to  a  confidential  friend,  "  she  looked  like  a  China 
doll,  which  has  nothing  to  do  all  day  but  to  grin  and  wag  its  head.  By 
Jove,  Will,  it  was  all  1  could  do  to  prevent  myself  from  throwing  the  sofa- 
cushion  at  her."  He  restrained  that  exhibition  of  sentiment,  however. 

The  sisters  began  to  play  the  Battle  of  Prague.  "  Stop  that  d thing," 

George  howled  out  in  a  fury  from  the  sofa.  "  It  makes  me  mad.  You 
play  us  something,  Miss  Swartz,  do.  Sing  something,  anything  but  the 
Battle  of  Prague." 

"Shall  I  sing  Blue-Eyed  Mary,  or  the  air  from  the  Cabinet?"  Miss 
Swartz  asked. 

"That  sweet  thing  from  the  Cabinet,"  the  sisters  said. 

"We've  had  that,"  replied  the  misanthrope  on  the  sofa. 

"I  can  sing  Fluvy  du  Tajy,"  Swartz  said,  in  a  meek  voice,  "if  I  had  the 
words."  It  was  the  last  of  the  worthy  young  woman's  collection. 

"O  Fleuve  du  Tage,"  Miss  Maria  cried ;  "  we  have  the  song,"  and  went 
off  to  fetch  the  book  in  which  it  was. 

Now  it  happened  that  this  song,  then  in  the  height  of  the  fashion,  had 
been  given  to  the  young  ladies  by  a  young  friend  of  theirs,  whose  name 
was  on  the  title,  and  Miss  Swartz,  having  concluded  the  ditty  with  George's 
applause  (for  he  remembered  that  it  was  a  favorite  of  Amelia's),  was  hoping 
for  an  encore  perhaps,  and  fiddling  with  the  leaves  of  the  music,  when  her 
eye  fell  upon  the  title,  and  she  saw  "Amelia  Sedley"  written  in  the 
corner. 

"Lor*!"  cried  Miss  Swnrtz,  spinning  swiftly  round  on  the  music-stool, 
"is  it  my  Amelia?  Amelia  that  was  at  Miss  P.'s  at  Hammersmith?  I 
know  it  is.  It's  her,  and — Tell  me  about  her — where  is  she? " 


250  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


"  Don't  mention  her,"  Miss  Maria  Osborne  said  hastily.  "  Her  family 
has  disgraced  itself.  Her  father  cheated  papa,  and  as  for  her,  she  is  never 
to  be  mentioned  here"  This  was  Miss  Maria's  return  for  George's  rude- 
ness about  the  Battle  of  Prague. 

"Are  you  a  friend  of  Amelia's?"  George  said,  bouncing  up.  "God 
bless  you' for  it,  Miss  Swartz.  Don't  believe  what  the  girls  say.  She's  not 
to  blame  at  any  rate.  She's  the  best — " 

"  You  know  you're  not  to  speak  about  her,  George,"  cried  Jane.  "  Papa 
forbids  it." 

"Who's  to  prevent  me?"  George  cried  out.  "I  mil  speak  of  her.  I 
say  she's  the  best,  the  kindest,  the  gentlest,  the  sweetest  girl  in  England; 
and  that,  bankrupt  or  no,  mv  sisters  are  not  fit  to  hold  candles  to  her.  If 
you  like  her,  go  and  see  her,  Miss  Swartz;  she  wants  friends  now  ;  and  I 
say.  God  bless  everybody  who  befriends  her.  Anybody  who  speaks  kindly 
of  her  is  my  friend  ;  anybody  who  speaks  against  her  is  my  enemy.  Thank 
you,  Miss  Swartz;"  and  he  went  up  and  wrung  her  hand. 

"George!    George!"  one  of  the  sisters  cried  imploringly. 

"I  say,"  George  said  fiercely,  "1  thank  everybody  who  loves  Amelia 
Sed — "  He  stopped.  Old  Osborne  was  in  the  room  with  a  face  livid  with 
rage,  and  eyes  like  hot  coals. 

Though  George  had  stopped  in  his  sentence,  yet,  his  blood  being  up,  he 
was  not  to  be  cowed  by  all  the  generations  ot  Osborne;  rallying  instantly, 
he  replied  to  the  bullying  look  of  his  father,  with  another  so  indicative  of 
resolution  and  defiance,  that  the  elder  man  quailed  in  his  turn,  and  looked 
away.  He  felt  that  the  tussle  was  coming.  "Mrs.  Haggistoun,  let  me 
take  you  down  to  dinner,"  he  said.  "Give  your  arm  to  Miss  Swartz, 
George,"  and  they  marched. 

From  Book  III.  of  The  Adventures  of  Henry  Esmond  we  quote 
A  VISIT  TO  CASTLEWOOD. 

Esmond  took  horses  to  Castlewood.  He  had  not  seen  its  ancient  gray 
towers  and  well-remembered  woods  for  nearly  fourteen  years,  and  since 
lie  rode  thence  with  my  lord,  to  whom  his  mistress  with  her  young  chil- 
dren by  her  side  waved  an  adieu.  What  ages  seemed  to  have  passed  since 
then,  what  years  of  action  and  passion,  of  care,  love,  hope,  disaster!  The 
children  were  grown  up  now,  and  had  stories  of  their  own.  As  for 
Esmond,  he  felt  to  be  a  hundred  years  old  ;  his  dear  mistress  only  seemed 
unchanged  ;  she  looked  and  welcomed  him  quite  as  of  old.  There  \vas 
the  fountain  in  the  court  babbling  its  familiar  music,  the  old  hall  and  its 
furniture,  the  carved  chair  my  late  lord  used,  the  very  flagon  he  drank 
from.  Esmond's  mistress  knew  he  would  like  to  sleep  in  the  little  room 
he  used  to  occupy;  'twas  made  ready  for  him,  and  wall-flowers  and  sweet 
herbs  set  in  the  adjoining  chamber,  the  chaplain's  room. 

In  tears  of  not  unmanlv  emotion,  with  prayers  of  submission  to  the 
awful  Dispenser  of  death  and  lite,  of  good  and  evil  fortune,  Mr.  Esmond 
passed  a  part  of  that  first  night  at  Castlewood  lying  awake  for  many  hours 
as  the  clock  kept  tolling  (in  tones  so  well  remembered),  looking  back,  as 
all  men  will,  that  revisit  their  home  of  childhood,  over  the  great  gulf  ot 
time,  and  surveying  himself  on  the  distant  bank  yonder,  a  sad  little  mel- 
ancholy boy  with  his  lord  still  alive — his  dear  mistress,  u  girl  yet,  her 


THACKERAY.  251 


children  sporting  around  her.  Years  ago,  a  boy  on  that  very  bed,  when 
she  had  blessed  him  and  called  him  her  knight,  he  had  made'a  vow  to  be 
faithful  and  never  desert  her  dear  service.  Had  he  kept  that  fond  boyish 
promise  ?  Yes,  before  heaven  ;  yes,  praise  be  to  God  !  His  life  had  been 
hers;  his  blood,  his  fortune,  his  name,  his  whole  heart  ever  since  had  been 
hers  and_  her  children's.  All  night  long  he  was  dreaming  his  boyhood 
over  again,  and  waking  fitfully;  he  half  fancied  he  heard  Father  Holt 
calling  to  him  from  the  next  chamber,  and  that  he  was  coming  in  and  out 
from  the  mysterious  window. 

Esmond  rose  up  before  the  dawn,  passed  into  the  next  room,  where  the 
air  was  heavy  with  the  odor  of  the  wall-flowers  ;  looked  into  the  brazier 
where  the  papers  had  been  burnt,  into  the  old  presses  where  Holt's  books 
and  papers  had  been  kept,  and  tried  the  spring  and  whether  the  window 
worked  still.  The  spring  had  not  been  touched  for  years,  but  yielded  at 
length,  and  the  whole  fabric  of  the  window  sank  down.  He  lifted  it  and 
it  relapsed  into  its  frame ;  no  one  had  ever  passed  thence  since  Holt  used 
it  sixteen  years  ago.  .  .  . 

I  was  interrupted  by  a  tapping  of  a  light  finger  at  the  ring  of  the 
chamber-door:  'twas  rny  kind  mistress,  with  her  face  full  of  love  and 
welcome.  She,  too,  had  passed  the  night  wakefully  no  doubt ;  but  neither 
asked  the  other  how  the  hours  had  been  spent.  There  are  things  we  divine 
without  speaking,  and  know  though  they  happen  out  of  our  sight.  This 
fond  lady  hath  told  me  that  she  knew  both  days  when  I  was  wounded 
abroad.  Who  shall  say  how  far  sympathy  reaches,  and  how  truly  love  can 
prophesy?  "I  looked  into  your  room,"  was  all  she  said;  "the  bed  was 
vacant,  the  little  old  bed  !  I  knew  I  should  find  you  here."  And  tender 
and  blushing  faintly  with  a  benediction  in  her  eyes,  the  gentle  creature 
kissed  him. 

They  walked  out,  hand-in-hand,  through  the  old  court,  and  to  the  terrace- 
walk,  where  the  grass  was  glistening  with  dew,  and  the  birds  in  the  green 
woods  above  were  singing  their  delicious  choruses  under  the  blushing  morn- 
ing sky.  How  well  all  things  were  remembered  !  The  ancient  towers  and 
gables  of  the  hall  darkling  against  the  east,  the  purple  shadows  on  the 
green  slopes,  the  quaint  devices  and  carvings  of  the  dial,  the  forest-crowned 
heights,  the  fair  yellow  plain  cheerful  with  crops  and  corn,  the  shining 
river  rolling  through  it  towards  the  pearly  hills  beyond ;  all  these  were 
before  us,  along  with  a  thousand  beautiful  memories  of  our  youth,  beautiful 
and  sad,  but  as  real  and  vivid  in  our  minds  as  that  fair  and  always- 
remembered  scene  our  eyes  beheld  once  more.  We  forget  nothing.  The 
memory  sleeps,  but  wakens  again  ;  I  often  think  how  it  shall  be  when,  after 
the  last  sleep  of  death,  the  reveille  shall  rouse  us  for  ever,  and  the  past  in 
one  flash  of  self-consciousness  rush  back,  like  the  soul-revivified. 

The  house  would  not  be  up  for  some  hours  yet  (it  was  July,  and  the 
dawn  was  only  just  awake),  and  here  Esmond  opened  himself  to  his  mis- 
tress, of  the  business  he  had  in  hand,  and  what  part  Frank  was  to  play  in 
it.  He  knew  he  could  confide  anything  to  her,  and  that  the  fond  soul 
would  die  rather  than  reveal  it;  and  bidding  her  keep  the  secret  from  all, 
lie  laid  it  entirely  before  his  mistress  (always  as  staunch  a  little  loyalist  as 
any  in  the  kingdom),  and  indeed  was  quite  sure  that  any  plan  of  his  was 
secure  of  her  applause  and  sympathy.  Never  was  such  a  glorious  scheme 
to  her  partial  mind,  never  such  a  devoted  knight  to  execute  it.  An  hour 
or  two  may  have  passed  whilst  they  were  having  their  colloquy.  Beatrix 
came  out  to  them  just  as  their  talk  was  over;  her  tall  beautiful  form  robed 


252  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


in  sable  (which  she  wore  without  ostentation  ever  since  last  year's  catastro- 
phe), sweeping  over  the  green  terrace,  and  casting  its  shadows  before  her 
across  the  grass. 

She  made  us  one  of  her  grand  curtsies  smiling,  and  called  us  "the  young 
people."  She  was  older,  paler,  and  more  majestic  than  in  tine  year  before  ; 
her  mother  seemed  the  youngest  of  the  two.  She  never  once  spoke  of  her 
grief,  Lady  Castlewood  told  -Esmond,  or  alluded,  save  by  a  quiet  word  or 
two,  to  the  death  of  her  hopes 

Esmond's  visit  home  was  but  for  two  days — the  business  he  had  in  hand 
calling  him  away,  and  out  of  the  country.  Ere  he  went,  he  saw  Beatrix 
but  once  alone,  and  then  she  summoned  him  out  of  the  long  tapestry  room, 
where  he  and  his  mistress  were  sitting,  quite  as  in  old  times,  into  ths 
adjoining  chamber,  that  had  been  Viscountess  Isabel's  sleeping  apartment, 
and  where  Esmond  perfectly  well  remembered  seeing  the  old  lady  sitting 
up  in  the  bed,  in  her  night-rail,  that  morning  when  the  troop  of  guard 
came  to  fetch  her.  Here  stood  Beatrix  in  her  black  robes,  holding  a  box 
in  her  hand;  'twas  that  which  Esmond  had  given  her  before  her  marriage, 
stamped  with  a  coronet  which  the  disappointed  girl  was  never  to  wear;  and 
containing  his  aunt's  legacy  of  diamonds. 

"You  had  best  take  these  with  you,  Harry,"  says  she;  "I  have  no  need 
of  diamonds  any  more."  There  was  not  the  least  token  of  emotion  in  her 
quiet  low  voice.  She  held  out  the  black  shagreen-case  with  her  fair  arm, 
that  did  not  shake  in  the  least.  Esmond  saw  she  wore  a  black  velvet 
bracelet  on  it,  with  my  Lord  Duke's  picture  in  enamel;  he  had  given  it 
her  but  three  days  before  he  fell. 

Esmond  said  the  stones  were  his  no  longer,  and  strove  to  turn  off  that 
proffered  restoration  with  a  laugh  ;  "Of  what  good,"  says  lie,  "  are  they  to 
me?  The  diamond  loop  to  his  hat  did  not  set  off  Prince  Eugene,  and  will 
not  make  my  yellow  face  look  any  handsomer." 

"You  will  give  them  to  your  wife,  cousin,"  says  she.  "  My  cousin,  your 
wife  has  a  lovely  complexion  and  shape." 

"  Beatrix,"  Esmond  burst  out,  the  old  fire  flaming  out  as  it  would  at 
times,  "will  you  wear  those  trinkets  at  your  marriage?  You  whispered 
once  you  did  not  know  me  :  you  know  me  better  now :  how  I  sought,  what 
I  have  sighed  for  for  ten  years,  what  foregone  ! " 

"A  price  for  your  constancy,  my  lord  !"  says  she;  "such  a  preux  chev- 
alier wants  to  be  paid.  Oh,  fie,  cousin  ! " 

"Again,"  Esmond  spoke  out,  "if  I  do  something  you  have  at  heart; 
something  worthy  of  me  and'you;  something  that  shall  make  me  a  name 
with  which  to  endow  you  ;  will  you  take  it?  There  was  a  chance  for  me 
once,  you  said;  is  it  impossible  to  recall  it?  Never  shake  your  head,  but 
hear  me ;  say  you  will  hear  me  a  year  hence.  If  I  come  back  to  you  and 
bring  you  fame,  will  that  please  you.?  If  I  do  what  you  desire  most — 
what  he  who  is  dead  desired  most — will  that  soften  you?" 

"  What  is  it,  Henry  ?  "  says  she,  her  face  lighting  up ;  "  what  mean  you  ?  " 

"  Ask  no  questions,"  he  said ;  "  wait,  and  give  me  but  time ;  if  I  bring 
back  that  you  long  for,  that  I  have  a  thousand  times  heard  you  pray  for, 
will  you  have  no  reward  for  him  who  has  done  you  that  service?  Put 
away  those  trinkets,  keep  them  :  it  shall  not  be  at  my  marriage,  it  shall  be 
at  yours ;  but  if  man  can  do  it,  I  swear  a  day  shall  come  when  there  shall 
be  a  feast  in  your  house,  and  you  shall  be  proud  to  wear  them.  I  say  no 


THACKERAY.  253 

more  now  ;  put  aside  these  words,  and  lock  away  yonder  box  until  the  day 
when  I  shall  remind  you  of  both.  All  I  pray  of  you  now  is,  to  wait  and 
to  remember." 

"You  are  going  out  of  the  country?"  says  Beatrix,  in  some  agitation. 

"  Yes,  to-morrow,"  says  Esmond. 

"To  Lorraine,  cousin?"  says  Beatrix,  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm; 
'twas  the  hand  on  which  she  wore  the  Duke's  bracelet.  "Stay,  Harry!" 
continued  she,  with  a  tone  that  had  more  despondency  in  it  than  she  was 
accustomed  to  show.  "  Hear  a  last  word.  I  do  love  you.  I  do  admire 
you— who  would  not,  that  has  known  such  love  as  yours  has  been  for  us 
all?  But  I  think  I  have  no  heart;  at  least,  I  have  never  seen  the  man 
that  could  touch  it;  and,  had  I  found  him,  I  would  have  followed  him  in 
rags  had  he  been  a  private  soldier,  or  to  sea,  like  one  of  those  buccaneers 
you  used  to  read  to  us  about  when  we  were  children.  I  would  do  anything 
for  such  a  man,  bear  anything  for  him:  but  I  never  found  one.  You  were 
ever  too  much  of  a  slave  to  win  my  heart;  even  my  Lord  Duke  could  not 
command  it.  I  had  not  been  happy  had  I  married  him.  I  knew  that 
three  months  after  our  engagement — and  was  too  vain  to  break  it.  Oh, 
Harry  !  I  cried  once  or  twice,  not  for  him,  but  with  tears  of  rage  because 
I  could  not  be  sorry  for  him.  I  was  frightened  to  find  I  was  glad  of  his 
death  ;  and  were  I  joined  to  you,  I  should  have  the  same  sense  of  servitude, 
the  same  longing  to  escape.  We  should  both  be  unhappy,  and  you  the 
most,  who  are  as  jealous  as  the  Duke  was  himself. 

"I  tried  to  love  him;  I  tried,  indeed  I  did:  affected  gladness  when  he 
came:  submitted  to  hear  when  he  was  by  me,  and  tried  the  wife's  part  I 
thought  I  was  to  play  for  the  rest  of  my  days.  But  half  an  hour  of  that 
complaisance  wearied  me,  and  what  would  a  lifetime  be?  My  thoughts 
were  away  when  he  was  speaking ;  and  I  was  thinking,  Oh,  that  this  man 
would  drop  rny  hand,  and  rise  up  from  before  my  feet !  I  knew  his  great 
and  noble  qualities,  greater  and  nobler  than  mine  a  thousand  times,  as 
yours  are,  cousin,  I  tell  you,  a  million  and  a  million  times  better.  But 
'twas  not  for  these  1  took  him.  I  took  him  to  have  a  great  place  in  the 
world,  and  I  lost  it.  I  lost  it,  and  do  not  deplore  him — and  I  often  thought, 
as  I  listened  to  his  fond  vows  and  ardent  words,  Oh,  if  I  yield  to  this  man, 
and  meet  the  other,  I  shall  hate  him  and  leave  him  ! 

"  I  am  not  good,  Harry :  my  mother  is  gentle  and  good  like  an  angel. 
I  wonder  how  she  should  have  had  such  a  child.  She  is  weak,  but  she 
would  die  rather  than  do  a  wrong;  I  am  stronger  than  she,  but  I  would 
do  it  out  of  defiance.  I  do  not  care  for  what  the  parsons  tell  me  with  their 
droning  sermons :  I  used  to  see  them  at  court  as  mean  and  as  worthless  as 
the  meanest  woman  there.  Oh,  1  am  sick  and  weary  of  the  world !  I 
wait  but  for  one  thing,  and  when  'tis  done,  I  will  take  F rank's  religion 
and  your  poor  mother's,  and  go  into  a  nunnery,  and  end  like  her.  Shall 
I  wear  the  diamonds  then  ? — they  say  the  nuns  wear  their  best  trinkets  the 
day  they  take  the  veil.  I  will  put  them  away  as  you  bid  me;  farewell, 
cousin :  mamma  is  pacing  the  next  room,  racking  her  little  head  to  know 
what  we  have  been  saying.  She  is  jealous,  all  women  are.  I  sometimes 
think  that  is  the  only  womanly  quality  I  have. 

"  Farewell.  Farewell,  brother."  She  gave  him  her  cheek  as  a  brotherly 
privilege.  The  cheek  was  as  cold  as  marble. 

He  rid  away  from  Castlewood  to  attempt  the  task  he  was  bound  on,  and 
stand  or  fall  by  it;  in  truth,  his  state  of  mind  was  such,  that  he  was  eager 
22 


254  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

for  some  outward  excitement  to  counteract  that  gnawing  malady  which  he 
was  inwardly  enduring. 

"  The  first  characteristic  which  strikes  the  reader  of  Thackeray 
is  unquestionably  his  humor.  It  is  a  kind  of  penetrating  force 
throughout  all  his  works,  now  lashed  into  sarcasm  and  anon  dis- 
solved in  pathos.  It  is  one  of  the  great  mistakes  regarding  this 
author  that  he  is  satirical  and  nothing  else.  He  is  one  of  the  best 
of  English  humorists  simply  because  his  nature  is  sensitive  at  all 
points.  If  ever  a  man's  humor  were  useful  to  instruct  as  well  as 
to  delight,  it  was  that  of  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh.  When  he 
laughs  we  know  he  will  do  it  fairly — his  eye  wanders  round  all, 
and  neither  friend  nor  foe,  if  vulnerable,  can  keep  out  the  arrows 
of  his  wit. 

"  A  second  quality  that  is  observable  in  him  is  his  fidelity.  And 
to  this  we  do  not  attach  the  restricted  meaning  that  the  persons 
of  his  novels  are  faithful  to  nature — though  that  they  incontestably 
are — but  the  wide  import  of  being  true  to  the  results  of  life  as  we 
see  them  daily.  He  does  not  allow  the  development  of  a  story  to 
destroy  the  unities  of  character,  and  in  this  respect  he  resembles 
the  greatest  of  all  writers. 

"  The  subjectivenrss  of  Thackeray  is  another  quality  which  has 
greatly  enhanced  the  value  of  his  works.  So  eminently  subjective 
are  they,  that  those  of  his  friends  who  know  him  well  are  able  to 
trace  in  them  the  successive  stages  of  his  personal  career,  and  to 
show  in  what  manner  the  incidents  of  his  own  life  operated  upon 
his  novels.  There  are  but  few  incidents  in  the  whole  series  that 
are  not  drawn  either  from  his  personal  history  or  the  history  of 
some  one  of  his  friends  or  acquaintances.  This  is,  doubtless,  one 
of  the  most  influential  causes  of  the  reality  of  his  stories.  Not- 
withstanding the  multiplicity  of  his  personages,  there  are  not  two 
which  in  any  sense  resemble  each  other. 

"  Leading  out  of  his  subjectiveness,  or  rather  being  a  broader 
and  grander  development  of  it,  we  come  to  the  fourth  great  char- 
acteristic of  Thackeray, — his  humanity.  That  is  the  crown  and 
glory  of  his  work.  The  man  was  true  as  the  light  of  heaven  to  the 
generous  instincts  of  his  nature.  To  veil  at  times  this  side  of  his 
character  was  essential,  in  order  to  give  play  to  that  satire  which 
kills.  If  his  mission  was  to  exalt  the  good  and  the  pure,  it  was 
also  as  decidedly  his  mission  to  abase  the  false.  To  do  this  he 
must  necessarily  appear  severe.  But  who  that  reads  him  well  can 
fail  to  perceive  that  the  eye  accustomed  to  blaze  with  scorn  could 
also  moisten  with  sympathy  and  affection?"* 

*  Edinburgh,  Review,  January,  1873. 


SIR    WALTER    SCOTT. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  was  born  August  15,  1771,  in  Edinburgh. 
From  his  earliest  years  he  evinced  a  keen  appetite  for  incidents 
of  a  romantic  and  chivalrous  nature  ;  memorizing  with  great 
facility  and  gusto  every  border-raid  ballad  and  nursery  ditty 
that  he  could  anywhere  come  upon;  and,  a  few  years  later, 
when  about  thirteen,  deriving  absorbing  pleasure  from  Percy's 
fragments  of  ancient  poetry.  To  use  his  own  words:  "The 
whole  Jemmy  and  Jenny  Jessamy  tribe  I  abhorred,  and  it 
required  the  art  of  Burney,  or  the  feeling  of  Mackenzie,  to  fix 
my  attention  upon  a  domestic  tale.  But  all  that  was  adven- 
turous and  romantic,  that  touched  upon  knight-errantry,  I 
devoured." 

School  days  past,  he  gratified  still  further  his  youthful  pas- 
sion by  several  years  of  travel  through  the  wildest  and  most 
picturesque  parts  of  Scotland  ;  examining  natural  and  artificial 
curiosities,  mingling  with  its  pastoral  mountaineers,  arid  glean- 
ing thence  a  rich  store  of  old  ballads  and  legends,  which,  in 
after  years,  he  gave  to  the  world  in  his  first  publication — 
Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border.  Then  followed,  in  1786,  his 
indenture  as  a  writer  to  the  Signet;  in  1792,  his  admission  to 
the  bar  ;  shortly  afterward,  his  promotion  to  the  office  of  Sheriff 
of  Selkirkshire,  and  in  1806  his  appointment  as  Clerk  of  the 
Court  of  Sessions. 

But  the  year  before  our  last  date,  Scott  came  before  the 
public,  and  not  without  considerable  eclat,  as  a  poet,  in  the 
authorship  of  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.  Then,  for  about 
ten  years,  there  followed  an  almost  continuous  procession  of 
poems,  in  which  it  was  thought  that  their  author  had  quite 
exhausted  both  his  own  fertility  and  that  of  Scottish  life  itself. 
These  were  Mannion,  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  Vision  of  Don 
Roderick,  Rolceby,  The  Bridal  of  Triermain,  The  Lord  of  the 
Isles,  and  Harold  the  Dauntless. 

255 


256  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

From  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  Canto  I.,  we  select  the  following 
passages : 

But  scarce  again  his  horn  he  wound,    • 

When  lo!  forth  starting  at  the  sound, 

From  underneath  an  aged  oak, 

That  slanted  from  the  islet  rock, 

A  damsel  guider  of  its  way, 

A  little  skiff  shot  to  the  bay, 

That  round  the  promontory  steep 

Led  its  deep  line  in  graceful  sweep, 

Eddying,  in  almost  viewless  wave, 

The  weeping-willow  twig  to  lave, 

And  kiss,  with  whispering  sound  and  slow, 

The  beach  of  pebbles  bright  as  snow. 

The  boat  had  touch'd  this  silver  strand, 
Just  as  the  Hunter  left  his  stand, 
And  stood  conceal'd  amid  the  brake, 
To  view  this  Lady  of  the  Lake. 
The  maiden  paused,  as  if  again 
She  thought  to  catch  the  distant  strain. 
With  head  up-raised,  and  look  intent, 
And  eye  and  ear  attentive  bent, 
And  locks  flung  back,  and  lips  apart, 
Like  monument  of  Grecian  art, 
In  listening  mood,  she  seem'd  to  stand, 
The  guardian  Naiad  of  the  strand. 

•*  '  *  *  *  •* 

A  Chieftain's  daughter  seem'd  the  maid; 

Her  satin  snood,  her  silken  plaid, 

Her  golden  brooch,  such  birth  betray'd. 

And  seldom  was  a  snood  amid 

Such  wild  luxuriant  ringlets  hid, 

Whose  glossy  black  to  shame  might  bring 

The  plumage  of  the  raven's  wing; 

And  seldom  o'er  a  breast  so  fair, 

Mantled  a  plaid  with  modest  care, 

And  never  brooch  the  folds  combined 

Above  a  heart  more  good  and  kind. 

*  #  *  #  * 

Impatient  of  the  silent  horn, 

Now  on  the  gale  her  voice  was  borne : — 

"  Father !  "  she  cried ;  the  rocks  around 

Loved  to  prolong  the  gentle  sound. 

A  while  she  paused,  no  answer  came, — 

"  Malcolm,  was  thine  the  blast  ?  "  the  name 


SCOTT.  257 


Less  resolutely  utter'd  fell, 

The  echoes  could  not  catch  the  swell. 

"  A  stranger  I,"  the  Huntsman  said, 
Advancing  from  the  hazel  shade. 
The  maid,  alarmed,  with  hasty  oar, 
Push'd  her  light  shallop  from  the  shore, 
And  when  a  space  was  gained  between, 
Closer  she  drew  her  bosom's  screen; 
(So  forth  the  startled  swan  would  swing, 
So  turn  to  prune  his  ruffled  wing;) 
Then  safe,  though  flutter'd  and  amazed, 
She  paused,  and  on  the  stranger  gazed. 
Not  his  the  form,  nor  his  the  eye, 
That  youthful  maidens  wont  to  fly. 

•x-  •&  *  #  * 

A  while  the  maid  the  stranger  eyed, 
And,  reassured,  at  length  replied, 
-  ,•  That  Highland  halls  were  open  still 

To  wilder'd  wanderers  of  the  hill. 
"Nor  think  you  unexpected  come 
To  yon  lone  isle,  our  desert  home ; 
Before  the  heath  had  lost  the  dew, 
This  morn,  a  couch  was  pull'd  for  you ; 
On  yonder  mountain's  purple  head 
Have  ptarmigan  and  heath-cock  bled, 
And  our  broad  nets  have  swept  the  mere, 
To  furnish  forth  your  evening  cheer." 

"  Now,  by  the  rood,  my  lovely  maid, 
Your  courtesy  has  err'd,"  he  said ; 
"  No  right  have  I  to  claim,  misplaced, 
The  welcome  of  expected  guest. 
A  wanderer,  here  by  fortune  tost, 
My  way,  my  friends,  my  courser  lost, 
I  ne'er  before,  believe  me,  fair, 
Have  ever  drawn  your  mountain  air, 
Till  on  this  lake's  romantic  strand, 
I  found  a  fey  in  fairy  land ! " 

The  huntsman  accompanies  the  Lady  to  her  Sire's  Mansion, 
where,  during  the  hospitalities  of  the  evening,  the  latter  sings 

the  following  song : 

• 

"  Soldier,  rest !   thy  warfare  o'er, 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking: 
22*  R 


258  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 

Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 
In  our  isle'«  enchanted  hall, 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing, 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall, 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 
Soldier,  rest !   thy  wariare  o'er, 
Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more: 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 

"No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear, 

Armor's  clang,  or  war-steed  champing, 
Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

Mustering  clan,  or  squadron  tramping. 
Yet  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come 

At  the  daybreak  from  the  fallow, 
And  the  bittern  strand  his  drum, 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 
Ruder  sounds  shall  none  be  near, 
Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here, 
Here's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  champing, 
Shouting  clans,  or  squadrons  stamping." 

She  paused — then,  blushing,  led  the  lay 
To  grace  the  stranger  of  the  day. 

*  *  '*•  *  #        _'» 

"  Huntsman,  rest !   thy  chase  is  done, 

While  our  slumbrous  spells  assail  ye, 
Dream  not,  with  the  rising  sun, 

Bugles  her  shall  sound  reveille. 
Sleep!   the  deer  is  in  his  den; 

Sleep!  thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying; 
Sleep!  nor  dream  in  yonder  glen, 

How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest ;   thy  chase  is  done, 
Think  not  of  the  rising  sun, 
For  at  dawning  to  assail  ye, 
/     Here  no  bugles  sound  reveille." 

"  Scott's  poetry  belongs  to  the  class  of  improvisatori  poetry.  It 
has  neither  depth,  height,  nor  breadth  in  it;  neither  uncommon 
strength,  nor  uncommon  refinement  of  thought,  sentiment,  or 
language.  It  has  no  originality.  But  if  this  author  has  no 
research,  no  moving  power  in  his  own  breast,  he  relies  with  the 
greater  safety  and  success  on  the  force  of  his  subject.  He  selects 
a  story  such  as  is  sure  to  please,  full  of  incidents,  characters, 


SCOTT.  259 


peculiar  manners,  costume,  and  scenery ;  and  he  tells  it  in  a  way 
that  can  offend  no  one. 

"  In  a  word,  I  conceive  that  he  is  to  the  great  poet  what  an 
excellent  mimic  is  to  a  great  actor.  There  is  no  determinate  im- 
pression left  on  the  mind  by  reading  his  poetry.  It  has  no  results. 
The  reader  rises  up  from  the  perusal  with  new  images  and  associa- 
tions, but  he  remains  the  same  man  that  he  was  before.  A  great 
mind  is  one  that  moulds  the  minds  of  others.""* 

In  1814  appeared  a  prose  fiction,  entitled  Waverley,  which,  in  the 
immense  popularity  to  which  it  rapidly  succeeded,  constituted  an 
unparalleled  event  hitherto  in  the  annals  of  British  literature.  Its 
author,  however,  was  not  known  to  the  public.  Then,  in  the  next 
ensuing  decade,  there  issued,  evidently  from  the  same  mysterious 
source,  Guy  Mannering,  The  Antiquary,  several  series  of  Tales  of  My 
Landlord,  Rob  Roy,  Ivanhoe,  The  Visionary,  The  Monastery,  The  Abbot, 
Kenilworth,  The  Pirate,  The  Fortunes  of  Nigel,  Peveril  of  the  Peak, 
Quentin  Durward,  St.  Ronan's  Well,  Red  Gauntlet,  and  Tales  of  the 
Crusaders— an  average  of  a  volume  and  a  half  a  year. 

In  the  vigorous  inquest  for  the  author  of  these  marvellously 
popular  fictions,  suspicion  fell  early  upon  Scott;  and  his  evasions 
and  final  denial  availed  nothing  in  the  end  for  preventing  his 
discovery.  With  the  enormous  profits  accruing  from  the  publica- 
tion of  the  foregoing  fictions,  Sir  Walter — for  he  had  been  made 
a  baronet  in  1820 — transformed  his  modest  cottage  at  Abbotsford 
into  a  magnificent  feudal  castle — a  "romance  in  stone  and  lime," 
wherein,  for  several  years,  he  maintained  a  princely— a  national — 
hospitality  for  all  who  chose  to  call. 

But  envious  calamity  followed  close  upon  the  heels  of  this 
splendid  prosperity ;  for  Scott,  through  the  failure  of  his  publishers 
— the  Ballantynes — with  whom  he  had  business  connections,  was 
involved  in  a  vast  debt  of  over  a  hundred  thousand  pounds. 
Though  fifty-five  years  of  age  at  this  time,  he  at  once  set  resolutely 
to  work  to  repair  his  misfortune  by  new  earnings  of  his  pen.  And 
so  eminently  successful  was  he,  that,  in  the  six  years  that  remained 
to  him  for  work,  he  reduced  his  gigantic  liabilities  to  considerably 
less  than  one-half  their  original  size.  The  works  by  whose  sale  he 
accomplished  this  laudable  result  were  Woodstock,  Napoleon,  Chron- 
icles of  the  Canongate,  Anne  of  Geier stein,  Castle  Dangerous,  Count 
Robert  of  Paris,  and  several  minor  works. 

In  this  Herculean  task,  however,  which  Scott  had  set  for  himself, 
though  grandly  his  mental  powers  responded  to  the  demand,  he 
sadly  overestimated  his  physical  endurance.  His  strength  had  so 

*  William  Hazlitt's  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets. 


260  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

noticeably  declined  at  the  beginning  of  1831,  that  he  was  obliged 
to  go  abroad  to  recuperate.  For  about  six  months  he  tried  in  vain 
the  salubrious  climate  of  Italy ;  and  returning  home  in  June  of 
the  next  year,  he  breathed  his  last  on  September  21,  1832. 

Our  first  prose  extract  shall  be  from  JRob  Roy,  a  work  wherein 
Scott  has  given  us  some  of  the  most  vivid  representations  of  the 
wild  and  picturesque  life  of  the  Highlands. 

The  echoes  of  the  rocks  and  the  ravines,  on  either  side,  now  rang  to  the 
trumpets  of  the  cavalry,  which,  forming  themselves  into  two  distinct  bodies, 
began  to  move  down  the  valley  at  a  slow  trot.  That  commanded  by  Major 
Galbraith  soon  took  to  the  right  hand,  and  crossed  the  Forth,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  taking  up  the  quarters  assigned  them  for  the  night,  when  they  were 
to  occupy,  as  I  understood,  an  old  castle  in  the  vicinity.  They  formed  a 
lively  object  while  crossing  the  stream,  but  were  soon  lost  in  winding  up 
the  bank  on  the  opposite  side,  which  was  clothed  with  wood. 

We  continued  our  march  with  considerable  good  order.  To  ensure  the 
safe  custody  of  the  prisoner,*  the  Duke  had  caused  him  to  be  placed  on 
horseback  behind  one  of  his  retainers,  called,  as  I  was  informed,  Ewan  of 
Brigglands,  one  of  the  largest  and  strongest  men  who  were  present.  A 
horse-belt,  passed  round  the  bodies  of  both,  and  buckled  before  the  yeoman's 
breast,  rendered  it  impossible  for  Hob  Boy  to  free  himself  from  his  keeper. 
I  was  directed  to  keep  close  beside  them,  and  accommodated  for  the  pur- 
pose with  a  troop-horse.  We  were  as  closely  surrounded  by  the  soldiers 
as  the  width  of  the  road  would  permit,  and  had  always  at  least  one,  if  not 
two,  on  each  side  with  pistol  in  hand. 

In  this  manner  we  traveled  for  a  certain  distance,  until  we  arrived  at  a 
place  where  we  also  were  to  cross  the  river.  The  Forth,  as  being  the  outlet 
of  a  lake,  is  of  considerable  depth,  even  where  less  important  in  point  of 
width,  and  the  descent  to  the  ford  was  by  a  broken  precipitous  ravine, 
which  only  permitted  one  horseman  to  descend  at  once.  The  rear  and 
centre  of  our  small  body  halting  on  the  bank  while  the  front  files  passed 
down  in  succession,  produced  a  considerable  delay,  as  is  usual  on  such 
occasions,  and  even  some  confusion  ;  for  a  number  of  those  riders,  who 
made  no  proper  part  of  the  squadron,  crowded  to  the  ford  without  regu- 
larity, and  made  the  militia  cavalry,  although  tolerably  well  drilled,  par- 
take in  some  degree  of  their  own  disorder. 

It  was  while  we  were  thus  huddled  together  on  the  bank  that  I  heard 
Rob  Roy  whisper  to  the  man  behind  whom  he  was  placed  on  horseback, 
"  Your  father,  I^wan,  wadna  hae  carried  an  auld  friend  to  the  shambles, 
like  a  calf,  for  a'  the  Duke?  in  Christendom." 

Ewan  returned  no  answer,  but  shrugged,  as  one  who  would  express  by 
that  sign  that  what  he  was  doing  was  none  of  his  own  choice. 

"And  when  the  MacGregors  come  down  the  glen,  and  ye  see  toom 
faulds,  a  bluidy  hearth-stane,  and  the  fire  flashing  out  between  the  rafters 
o'  your  house,  ye  may  be  thinking  then,  Ewan,  that  were  your  friend  Rob 


*  Rob  Roy. 


SCOTT.  261 


to  the  fore,  you  would  have  had  that  safe  which  it  will  make  your  heart 
sair  to  lose." 

Ewan  of  Brigglands  again  shrugged  and  groaned,  but  remained  silent. 

"  It's  a  sair  thing,"  continued  Bob,  sliding  his  insinuations  so  gently  into 
Ewan's  ear  that  they  reached  no  other  but  mine,  who  certainly  saw  myself 
in  no  shape  called  upon  to  destroy  his  prospects  of  escape.  "It's  a  sair 
thing,  that  Ewan  of  Brigglands,  whom  Roy  MacGregor  has  helped  with 
hand,  sword,  and  purse,  suld  mind  a  gloom  from  a  great  man,  mair  than  a 
friend's  life." 

Ewan  seemed  sorely  agitated,  but  was  silent.— We  heard  the  Duke's 
voice  from  the  opposite  bank  call,  "  Bring  over  the  prisoner." 

Ewan  put  his  horse  in  motion,  and  just  as  I  heard  Roy  say,  "Never 
weigh  a  MacGregor's  bluid  against  a  broken  whang  o'  leather,  for  there 
will  be  another  accounting  to  gie  for  it  baith  here  and  hereafter,"  they 
passed  me  hastily,  and,  dashing  forward  rather  precipitately,  entered  the 
water. 

"  Not  yet,  Sir — not  yet,"  said  some  of  the  troopers  to  me,  as  I  was  about 
to  follow,  while  others  pressed  forward  into  the  stream. 

I  saw  the  Duke  on  the  other  side,  by  the  waning  light,  engaged  in  com- 
manding his  people  to  get  into  order,  as  they  landed  dispersedly,  some 
higher,  some  lower.  Many  had  crossed,  some  were  in  the  water,  and  the 
rest  were  preparing  to  follow,  when  a  sudden  splash  warned  ~ni  that 
MacGregor's  eloquence  had  prevailed  on  Ewan  to  give  him  freedom  and 
a  chance  for  life.  The  Duke  also  heard  the  sound,  and  instantly  guessed 
its  meaning. 

"Dog!"  he  exclaimed  to  Ewan  as  he  landed,  "where  is  your  prisoner?" 
and,  without  waiting  to  hear  the  apology  which  the  terrified  vassal  began 
to  falter  forth,  he  fired  a  pistol  at  his  head,  whether  fatally  I  know  not, 
and  exclaimed,  "Gentlemen,  disperse  and  pursue  the  villain — An  hundred 
guineas  for  him  that  secures  Hob  Boy!" 

All  became  an  instant  scene  of  the  most  lively  confusion.  Rob  Roy, 
disengaged  from  his  bonds,  doubtless  by  Ewan's  slipping  the  buckle  of  his 
belt,  had  dropped  off  at  the  horse's  tail,  and  instantly  dived,  passing  under 
the  belly  of  the  troop-horse  which  was  on  his  left  hand.  But  as  he  was 
obliged  to  come  to  the  surface  an  instant  for  air,  the  glimpse  of  his  tartan 
plaid  drew  the  attention  of  the  troopers,  some  of  whom  plunged  into  the 
river  with  a  total  disregard  to  their  own  safety,  rushing,  according  to  the 
expression  of  their  country,  through  pool  and  stream,  sometimes  swim- 
ming their  horses,  sometimes  losing  them  and  struggling  for  (heir  own 
lives.  Others  less  zealous,  or  more  prudent,  broke  off  in  different  direc- 
tions, and  galloped  up  and  down  the  banks,  to  watch  the  places  at  which 
the  fugitive  might  possibly  land. 

The  hollowing,  the  whooping,  the  calls  for  aid  at  different  points,  where 
they  saw,  or  conceived  they  saw,  some  vestige  of  him  they  were  seeking, 
— the  frequent  repoH  of  pistols  and  carbines,  fired  at  every  object  which 
excited  the  least  suspicion, — the  sight  of  so  many  horsemen  riding  about, 
in  and  out  of  the  river,  and  striking  with  their  long  broadswords  at 
whatever  excited  their  attention,  joined  to  the  vain  exertions  used  by 
their  officers  to  restore  order  and  regularity, — and  all  this  in  so  wild  a 
scene,  and  visible  only  by  the  imperfect  twilight  of  an  autumn  evening, 
made  the  most  extraordinary  hubbub  I  had  hitherto  witnessed.  1  WJV 


262  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

indeed  left  alone  to  observe  it,  for  our  whole  cavalcade  had  dispersed  in 
pursuit,  or  at  least  to  see  the  event  of  the  search.  Indeed,  as  I  partly 
suspected  at  the  time,  and  afterwards  learned  with  certainty,  many  of  those 
who  seemed  most  active  in  their  attempts  to  waylay  and  recover  the  fugi- 
tive, were,  in  actual  truth,  least  desirous  that  he  should  be  taken,  and  only 
joined  in  the  cry  to  increase  the  general  confusion,  and  to  give  Kob  Roy 
a  better  opportunity  of  escaping. 

Escape,  indeed,  was  not  difficult  for  a  swimmer  so  expert  as  the  free- 
booter, as  soon  as  he  had  eluded  the  first  burst  of  pursuit.  At  one  time 
he  was  closely  pressed,  and  several  blows  were  made,  which  flashed  in  the 
water  around  him  ;  the  scene  much  resembled  one  of  the  otter-hunts  which 
I  had  seen  at  Osbaldis.tone-Hall,  where  the  animal  is  detected  by  the 
hounds  from  its  being  necessitated  to  put  his  nose  above  the  stream  to  vent 
or  breathe,  while  he  is  enabled  to  elude  them  by  getting  under  water  again 
as  soon  as  he  has  refreshed  himself  by  respiration.  MacGregor,  however, 
had  a  trick  beyond  the  otter;  for  he  contrived,  when  very  closely  pursued, 
to  disengage  himself  unobserved  from  his  plaid,  and  suffer  it  to  float  down 
the  stream,  where  in  its  progress  it  quickly  attracted  general  attention ; 
many  of  the  horsemen  were  thus  put  upon  a  false  scent,  and  several  shots 
and  stabs  were  averted  from  the  party  lor  whom  they  were  designed. 

Once  fairly  out  of  view,  the  recovery  of  the  prisoner  became  almost 
impossible,  since,  in  so  many  places,  the  river  was  rendered  inaccessible 
by  the  steepness  of  its  banks,  or  the  thickets  of  alders,  poplars,  and  birch, 
whicn,  overhanging  its  banks,  prevented  the  approach  of  horsemen. 
Errors  and  accidents  had  also  happened  among  the  pursuers,  whose  task 
the  approaching  night  rendered  every  moment  more  hopeless.  Some  got 
themselves  involved  in  the  eddies  of  the  stream,  and  required  the  assistance 
of  their  companions  to  save  them  from  drowning.  Others,  hurt  by  shots 
or  blows  in  the  confused  melee,  implored  help  or  threatened  vengeance, 
and  in  one  or  two  instances  such  accidents  led  to  actual  strife. 

The  trumpets,  therefore,  sounded  the  retreat,  announcing  that  the  com- 
manding officer,  with  whatsoever  unwillingness,  had  for  the  present  relin- 
quished hopes  of  the  important  prize  which  had  thus  unexpectedly  escaped 
his  grasp,  and  the  troopers  began  slowly,  reluctantly,  and  brawling  with 
each  other  as  they  returned,  again  to  assume  their  ranks.  I  could  see 
them  darkening,  as  they  formed  on  the  southern  bank  of  the  river, — whose 
murmurs,  long  drowned  by  the  louder  cries  of  vengeful  pursuit,  were  now 
heard  hoarsely  mingled  with  the  deep,  discontented,  and  reproachful  voices 
of  the  disappointed  horsemen. 

The  following  description  of  a  tournament  is  taken  from  the 
first  volume  of  Ivanhoe  : 

The  proclamation  having  been  made,  the  heralds  withdrew  to  their 
stations.  The  knights,  entering  at  either  end  of  the  lists  in  long  proces- 
sion, arranged  themselves  in  a  double  file,  precisely  opposite  to  each  other, 
the  leader  of  each  party  being  in  the  centre  of  the  foremost  rank, — a  post 
which  he  did  not  occupy  until  each  had  carefully  arranged  the  ranks  of 
his  party,  and  stationed  every  one  in  his  place. 

•*  -;«•  *  *  %  *  •>;- 

As  yet  the  knights  held  their  long  lances  upright,  their  bright  points 
glancing  to  the  sun,  and  the  streamers  with  which  they  were  decorated 


SCOTT.  263 


fluttering  over  the  plumage  of  the  helmets The  marshals  then  with- 
drew from  the  lists,  and  William  de  Wyvil,  with  a  voice  of  thunder,  pro- 
nounced the  signal  words, — Laissez  oiler  ! 

The  trumpets  sounded  as  he  spoke — the  spears  of  the  champions  were 
at  once  lowered  and  placed  in  the  rests — the  spurs  were  dashed  into  the 
flanks  of  the  horses,  and  the  two  foremost  ranks  of  either  party  rushed 
upon  each  other  in  full  gallop,  and  met  in  the  middle  of  the  lists  with  a 
shock,  the  sound  of  which  was  heard  at  a  mile's  distance.  The  rear  rank 
of  each  party,  advanced  at  a  slower  pace  to  sustain  the  defeated,  and  follow 
up  the  success  of  the  victors  of  their  party. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

The  champions  thus  encountering  each  other  with  the  utmost  fury,  and 
with  alternate  success,  the  tide  of  battle  seemed  to  flow  now  toward  the 
southern,  now  toward  the  northern  extremity  of  the  lists,  as  one  or  the 
other  party  prevailed.  Meantime  the  clang  of  the  blows,  and  the  shouts 
of  the  combatants,  mixed  fearfully  with  the  sound  of  the  trumpets,  and 
drowned  the  groans  of  those  who  fell,  and  lay  rolling  defenceless  beneath 
the  feet  of  the  horses.  The  splendid  armor  of  the  combatants  was  now 
defaced  with  dust  and  blood,  and  gave  way  at  every  stroke  of  the  sword  and 
battle-axe.  The  gay  plumage,  shorn  from  the  crests,  drifted  upon  the  breeze 
like  snow-flakes. 

»•'"' :   »'•'#'#'•#»•  ;-     '-.* 

When  the  field  became  thin  by  the  numbers  on  either  side  who  had 
yielded  themselves  vanquished,  had  been  compelled  to  the  extremity  of  the 
lists,  or  been  otherwise  rendered  incapable  of  continuing  the  strife,  the 
Templar  and  the  Disinherited  Knight  at  length  encountered  hand  to  hand, 
with  all  the  fury  that  mortal  animosity,  joined  to  rivalry  of  honor,  could 
inspire.  Such  was  the  address  of  each  in  parrying  and  striking,  that  the 
spectators  broke  forth  into  a  unanimous  and  involuntary  shout,  expressive 
of  their  delight  and  admiration. 

But  at  this  moment  the  party  of  the  Disinherited  Knight  had  the  worst ; 
the  gigantic  arm  of  Front-de-Boeuf  on  the  one  flank,  and  the  ponderous 
strength  of  Athelstane  on  the  other,  bearing  down  and  dispersing  those  im- 
mediately exposed  to  them.  Finding  themselves  freed  from  their  immediate 
antagonists,  it  seems  to  have  occurred  to  both  these  knights  at  the  same 
instant,  that  they  would  render  the  most  decisive  advantage  to  their  party, 
by  aiding  the  Templar  in  his  contest  with  his  rival.  Turning  their  horses, 
therefore,  at  the  same  moment,  the  Norman  spurred  against  the  Disinherited 
Knight  on  the  one  side,  and  the  Saxon  on  the  other. 

"  Beware !  beware !  Sir  Disinherited  ! "  was  shouted  so  universally,  that 
the  knight  became  aware  of  his  danger ;  and,  striking  a  full  blow  at  the 
Templar,  he  reined  back  his  steed  in  the  same  moment,  so  as  to  escape  the 
charge  of  Athelstane  and  Front-de-Boeuf.  These  knights,  therefore,  their 
aim  being  thus  eluded,  rushed  from  opposite  sides  betwixt  the  object  of 
their  attack  and  the  Templar,  almost  running  their  horses  against  each 
other  ere  they  could  stop  their  career. 

*  #  *  *  *  #•  •* 

There  was  among  the  ranks  of  the  Disinherited  Knight  a  champion  in 
black  armor,  mounted  on  a  black  horse,  large  of  size,  tall,  and  to  all  appear- 
ance powerful  and  strong,  like  the  rider  by  whom  he  was  mounted.  This 
knight,  who  bore  on  his  shield  no  device  of  any  kind,  had  hitherto  evinced 
very  little  interest  in  the  event  of  the  fight,  beating  off'  with  seeming  ease 


264  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

those  combatants. who  attacked  him,  but  neither  pursuing  his  advantages, 
nor  himself  assailing  any  one.  In  short,  he  had  hitherto  acted  the  part 
of  a  spectator  rather  than  of  a  party  in  the  tournament,  a  circumstance 
which  procured  him  among  the  spectators  the  name  of  the  Black  Sluggard. 

At  once  this  knight  seemed  to  throw  aside  his  apathy,  when  he  discov- 
ered the  leader  of  his  party  so  hard  bestead  ;  for,  setting  spurs  to  his  horse, 
which  was  quite  fresh,  he  came  to  his  assistance  like  a  thunder-bolt,  ex- 
claiming in  a  voice  like  a  trumpet-call,"  Disinherited !  to  the  rescue ! "  It 
was  high  time ;  for,  while  the  Disinherited  Knight  was  pressing  upon  the 
Templar,  Front-de-Boeuf  had  got  nigh  to  him  with  his  uplifted  sword  ;  but 
ere  the  blow  could  descend,  the  Sable  Knight  dealt  a  stroke  on  the  head, 
which,  glancing  from  the  polished  helmet,  lighted  with  violence  scarcely 
abated  on  the  chamfron  of  the  steed,  and  Front-de-Boeuf  rolled  on  the 
ground,  both  horse  and  man  equally  stunned  by  the  fury  of  the  blow. 

The  Sable  Knight  then  turned  his  horse  upon  Athelstane  of  Conings- 
burgh ;  and  his  own  sword  having  been  broken  in  his  encounter  with 
Front-de-Boeuf,  he  wrenched  from  the  hand  of  the  bulky  Saxon  the  battle- 
axe  which  he  wielded,  and,  like  one  familiar  with  the  use  of  the  weapon, 
bestowed  him  such  a  blow  upon  the  crest,  that  Athelstane  also  lay  sense- 
less on  the  field.  Having  achieved  this  double  feat,  for  which  he  was  the 
more  highly  applauded  that  it  was  totally  unexpected  from  him,  the  Knight 
seemed  to  resume  the  sluggishness  of  his  character,  returning  calmly  to  the 
northern  extremity  of  the  lists,  leaving  his  leader  to  cope  as  he  best  could 
with  Brian  de  Bois-Guilbert. 

This  was  no  longer  a  matter  of  so  much  difficulty  as  formerly.  The 
Templar's  horse  had  bled  much,  and  gave  way  under  the  shock  of  the 
Disinherited  Knight's  charge.  Brian  de  Bois-Guilbert  rolled  on  the  field, 
encumbered  with  the  stirrup,  from  which  he  was  unable  to  draw  his  foot. 
His  antagonist  sprung  from  horseback,  waved  his  fatal  sword  over  the  head 
of  his  adversary,  and  commanded  him  to  yield  himself;  when  Prince  John, 
more  moved  by  the  Templar's  dangerous  situation  than  he  had  been  by  that 
of  his  rival,  saved  him  the  mortification  of  confessing  himself  vanquished, 
by  casting  down  his  warder,  and  putting  an  end  to  the  conflict. 

"  From  Walter  Scott  we  learned  history.  And  yet  is  this  history  ? 
All  these  pictures  of  a  distant  age  are  false.  Costumes,  scenery, 
externals  alone  are  exact;  actions,  speech,  sentiments,  all  the  rest 
is  civilized,  embellished,  arranged  in  modern  guise.  We  might 
suspect  it  when  looking  at  the  character  and  life  of  the  author ; 
for  what  does  he  desire,  and  what  do  the  guests,  eager  to  hear  him, 
demand  ?  Is  he  a  lover  of  truth  as  it  is,  foul  and  fierce ;  an  inquis- 
itive explorer,  indifferent  to  contemporary  applause,  bent  alone  on 
defining  the  transformations  of  living  nature  ?  By  no  means.  He 
is  in  history,  as  he  is  at  Abbotsford,  bent  on  arranging  points  of 
view  and  Gothic  halls.  The  moon  will  come  in  well  there  between 
the  towers;  here  is  a  nicely  placed  breastplate,  the  ray  of  light 
which  it  throws  back  is  pleasant  to  see  above  these  old  hangings  ; 
suppose  we  took  out  the  feudal  garments  from  the  wardrobe  and 
invited  the  guests  to  a  masquerade  ? 


SCOTT.  265 


"  Is  there  a  man  more  suited  than  the  author  to  compose  such 
a  spectacle?  He  is  a  good  Protestant,  a  good  husband,  a  good 
father,  very  moral,  so  decided  a  Tory  that  he  carries  off  as  a  relic 
a  glass  from  which  the  king  has  just  drunk.  In  addition,  he  has 
neither  talent  nor  leisure  to  reach  the  depth  of  his  characters. 
He  devotes  himself  to  the  exterior;  he  sees  and  describes  forms 
and  externals  much  more  at  length  than  feelings  and  internals. 
Again,  he  treats  his  mind  like  a  coal-mine,  serviceable  for  quick 
working,  and  for  the  greatest  possible  gain ;  a  volume  in  a  month, 
sometimes  in  a  fortnight  even,  and  this  volume  is  worth  one  thou- 
sand pounds. 

*  #  *  »••*•'•'*  *  * 

"  Walter  Scott  pauses  on  the  threshold  of  the  soul,  and  in  the 
vestibule  of  history,  selects  in  the  Renaissance  and  the  Middle-age 
only  the  fit  and  agreeable,  blots  out  frank  language,  licentious 
sensuality,  bestial  ferocity.  After  all,  his  characters,  to  whatever 
age  he  transports  them,  are  his  neighbors,  '  cannie '  farmers,  vain 
lairds,  gloved  gentlemen,  young  marriageable  ladies,  all  more  or 
less  commonplace,  that  is,  well-ordered  by  education  and  character, 
hundreds  of  miles  away  from  the  voluptuous  fools  of  the  Restora- 
tion, or  the  heroic  brutes  and  fierce  beasts  of  the  Middle-age.  As 
he  has  the  richest  supply  of  costumes,  and  the  most  inexhaustible 
talent  for  scenic  effect,  he  makes  his  whole  world  get  on  very 
pleasantly,  and  composes  tales  which,  in  truth,  have  only  the 
merit  of  fashion,  but  which  yet  may  last  a  hundred  years."* 

"  Farthermore,  surely  he  was  a  blind  critic  who  did  not  recognize 
here  a  certain  genial  sunshiny  freshness  and  picturesqueness ; 
paintings  both  of  scenery  and  figures,  very  graceful,  brilliant, 
occasionally  full  of  grace  and  glowing  brightness,  blended  in  the 
softest  composure ;  in  fact,  a  deep  and  sincere  love  of  the  beau- 
tiful in  nature  and  in  man,  and  the  readiest  faculty  of  expressing 
this  by  imagination  and  by  word.  It  is  the  utterance  of  a  man  of 
open  soul ;  of  a  brave,  large,  far-seeing  man,  who  has  a  true  broth- 
erhood with  all  men.  In  joyous  picturesqueness  and  fellow-feeling 
freedom  of  eye  and  heart;  or  to  say  it  in  a  word,  in  general  health- 
iness of  mind,  these  novels  prove  Scott  to  have  been  amongst  the 
foremost  writers."  f 


Taine's  English  Literature,  Vol.  II.  f  Carlyle's  Miscellaneous  Writings. 

23 


JOHN   RUSKIN. 


JOHN  RUSKIN  was  born  in  London,  in  February,  1819.  His 
education  was  received  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  where,  in  1839, 
he  won  the  Newdigate  Prize  for  English  poetry.  Graduating 
in  1842,  he  has  since  devoted  almost  exclusively  the  energies 
of  his  genius  and  the  wealth  of  a  varied  knowledge  to  the  study 
of  the  Fine  Arts — particularly  Painting  and  Architecture.  As 
recognitions  of  the  celebrity  he  has  attained  in  this  life-long  and 
all-absorbing  pursuit,  he  was,  in  1867,  appointed  Rode  Lecturer 
at  Cambridge,  and  two  years  later,  was  honored  as  Slade  Pro- 
fessor of  Art  in  the  University  of  Oxford. 

Not  to  name  all  the  works  which  have  emanated  from  his 
prolific  and  versatile  pen  within  the  interval  of  thirty  years, — 
considerably  more  than  a  volume  for  each  year,— we  will  enu- 
merate only  those  of  a  more  generally  interesting  character, 
such,  for  instance,  as  the  Modern  Painters  (five  volumes,  1843- 
60),  The  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture  (1849),  The  Stones  of 
Venice  (three  volumes,  1851-53),  Pre-Baphaelitism  (1851), 
Lectures  on  Architecture  and  Painting  (1854),  The  Two  Paths 
(lectures  on  Art  and  its  application  to  Decoration  and  Manufac- 
ture, 1859),  "  Unto  this  Last  "  (four  essays  on  the  first  principles 
of  Political  Economy,  1862),  The  Crown  of  Wild  Olive  (three 
lectures  on  Work,  Traffic,  and  War,  1866),  Fors  Clavigera  (letters 
to  the  Workingmen  and  Laborers  of  Great  Britain,  1871),  The 
Eagle  s  Nest  (ten  lectures  on  the  relation  of  Natural  Science  to 
Art,  1872),  Ariadne  Florentine/,  (six  lectures  on  wood  and  metal 
engraving,  1873-76),  and  The  Laws  of  Fesole  (treatise  on  ele- 
mentary Principles  and  Practice  of  Drawing  and  Painting, 
1877-78.) 

Our  first  two  extracts  are  from  the  Modern  Painters. 

2f>0 


E  USKIN.  267 


GREATNESS  IN  ART. 

There  is  therefore  a  distinction  to  be  made  between  what  is  ornamental 
in  language  and  what  is  expressive.  That  part  of  it  which  is  necessary  to 
the  embodying  and  conveying  the  thought  is  worthy  of  respect  and  atten- 
tion, as  necessary  to  excellence,  though  not  the  test  of  it.  But  that  part  of 
it  which  is  decorative  has  little  more  to  do  with  the  intrinsic  excellence  of 
the  picture  than  the  frame  or  the  varnishing  of  it.  And  this  caution  in 
distinguishing  between  the  ornamental  and  the  expressive  is  peculiarly 
necessary  in  painting;  for,  in  the  language  of  words,  it  is  nearly  impossible 
for  that  which  is  not  expressive  to  be  beautiful,  except  by  mere  rhythm  or 
melody,  any  sacrifice  to  which  is  immediately  stigmatized  as  error.  But 
the  beauty  of  mere  language  in  painting  is  not  only  very  attractive  and 
entertaining  to  the  spectator,  but  requires  for  its  attainment  no  small 
exertion  of  mind  and  devotion  of  time  by  the  artist.  Hence,  in  art,  men 
have  frequently  fancied  that  they  were  becoming  rhetoricians  and  poets 
when  they. were  only  learning  to  speak  melodiously;  and  the  judge  has 
over  and  over  again  advanced  to  the  honor  of  authors  those  who  were 
never  more  than  ornamental  writing-masters. 

Most  pictures  of  the  Dutch  school,  for  instance,  excepting  always  those 
of  Rubens,  Vandyke,  and  Rembrandt,  are  ostentatioas  exhibitions  of  the 
artist's  power  of  speech,  the  clear  and  vigorous  elocution  of  useless  and 
senseless  words;  while  the  early  efforts  of  Cimabue  and  Giotto  are  the 
burning  messages  of  prophecy,  delivered  by  the  stammering  lips  of  infants. 
It  is  not  by  ranking  the  former  as  more  than  mechanics,  or  the  latter  as 
less  than  artists,  that  the  taste  of  the  multitude,  always  awake  to  the  lowest 
pleasures  which  art  can  bestow,  and  blunt  to  the  highest,  is  to  be  formed 
or  elevated.  It  must  be  the  part  of  the  judicious  critic  carefully  to  dis- 
tinguish what  is  language,  and  what  is  thought,  and  to  rank  and  praise 
pictures  chiefly  for  the  Tatter,  considering  the  former  as  a  totally  inferior 
excellence,  and  one  which  cannot  be  compared  with,  or  weighed  against, 
thought  in  any  way,  nor  in  any  degree  whatsoever. 

The  picture  which  has  the  nobler  and  more  numerous  ideas,  however 
awkwardly  expressed,  is  a  greater  and  a  better  picture  than  that  which  has 
the  less  noble  and  less  numerous  ideas,  however  beautifully  expressed.  No 
weight,  nor  mass,  nor  beauty  of  execution  can  outweigh  one  grain  or  frag- 
ment of  thought.  Three  pen-strokes  of  Raffaelle  are  a  greater  and  a  better 
picture  than  the  most  finished  work  that  ever  Carlo  Dolci  polished  into 
inanity.  A  finished  work  of  a  great  artist  is  only  better  than  its  sketch,  if 
the  sources  of  pleasure  belonging  to  color  and  realization — valuable  in  them- 
selves— are  so  employed  as  to  increase  the  irnpressiveness  of  the  thought. 
But  if  one  atom  of  thought  has  vanished,  all  color,  all  finish,  all  execution, 
all  ornament,  are  too  dearly  bought.  Nothing  but  thought  can  pay  for 
thought;  and  the  instant  that  the  increasing  refinement  or  finish  of  the 
picture  begins  to  be  paid  for  by  the  loss  of  the  faintest  shadow  of  an  idea, 
that  instant  all  refinement  or  finish  is  an  excrescence  and  a  deformity.  .  .  . 

If  I  say  that  the  greatest  picture  is  that  which  conveys  to  the  mind  of 
the  spectator  the  greatest  number  of  the  greatest  ideas,  I  have  a  definition 
which  will  include  as  subjects  of  comparison  every  pleasure  which  art  is 
capable  of  conveying.  If  I  were  to  say,  on  the  contrary,  that  the  best 
picture  was  that  which  most  closely  imitated  nature,  I  should  assume  that 
art  could  only  please  by  imitating  nature,  and  I  should  cast  out  of  the  pale 
of  criticism  those  parts  of.  works  of  art  which  are  not  imitative,  that  is  to 


268  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

say,  intrinsic  beauties  of  color  and  form,  and  those  works  of  art  wholly, 
which,  like  the  arabesques  of  Raffaelle  in  the  Loggias,  are  not  imitative  at  all. 

Now  I  want  a  definition  of  art  wide  enough  to  include  all  its  varieties  of 
aim:  I  do  not  say  therefore  that  the  art  is  greatest  which  gives  most 
pleasure,  because,  perhaps,  there  is  some  art  whose  end  is  to  teach,  and  not 
to  please.  I  do  not  say  that  the  art  is  greatest  which  teaches  us  most, 
because,  perhaps,  there  is  some  art  whose  end  is  to  please,  and  not  to  teach. 
I  do  not  say  that  the  art  is  greatest  which  imitates  best,  because,  perhaps, 
there  is  some  art  whose  end  is  to  create,  and  not  to  imitate.  But  I  say  that 
the  art  is  greatest  which  conveys  to  the  mind  of  the  spectator,  by  any  means 
whatsoever,  the  greatest  number  of  the  greatest  ideas,  and  I  call  an  idea 
great  in  proportion  as  it  is  received  by  a  higher  faculty  of  the  mind,  and 
as  it  more  fully  occupies,  and  in  occupying,  exercises  and  exalts  the  faculty 
by  which  it  is  received. 

From  the  Chapter  on  "Truth  of  Color"  we  extract  what  we 
will  name 

A   PICTURE  AND   ITS   LANDSCAPE. 

There  is,  in  the  first  room  of  the  National  Gallery,  a  landscape  attributed 
to  Gaspar  Poussin,  called  sometimes  Aricia,  sometimes  Le  or  La  Kiccia, 
according  to  the  fancy  of  catalogue  printers.  Whether  it  can  be  supposed 
to  resemble  the  ancient  Aricia,  now  La  Riccia,  close  to  Albano,  I  will  not 
take  upon  me  to  determine,  seeing  that  most  of  the  towns  of  these  old 
masters  are  quite  as  like  one  place  as  another;  but,  at  any  rate,  it  is  a  town 
on  a  hill,  wooded  with  two-and-thirty  bushes,  of  very  uniform  size,  and 
possessing  about  the  same  number  of  leaves  each.  Ihese  bushes  are  all 
painted  in  with  one  dull  opaque  brown,  becoming  very  slightly  greenish 
the  lights,  and  discover  in  one  place  a  bit  of  rock,  which,  of  course 
would,  in  nature  have  been  cool  and  gray  beside  the  lustrous  hues  of  foliage, 
and  which,  therefore,  being  more  completely  in  shade,  is  consistently  and 
scientifically  painted  of  a  very  clear,  pretty,  and  positive  brick  red,  the 
only  thing  like  color  in  the  picture.  The  foreground  is  a  piece  of  road, 
which,  in  order  to  make  allowance  for  its  greater  nearness,  for  its  being 
completely  in  light,  and,  it  may  be  presumed,  from  the  quantity  of  vege- 
tation usually  present  on  carriage-roads,  is  given  in  a  very  cool  green  gray, 
and  the  truth  of  the  picture  is  completed  by  a  number  of  dots  in  the  sky 
on  the  right,  with  a  stalk  to  them,  of  a  sober  and  similar  brown. 

Not  long  ago,  I  was  slowly  descending  this  very  bit  of  carriage-road,  the 
first  turn  after  you  leave  Albano,  not  a  little  impeded  by  the  worthy  suc- 
cessors of  the  ancient  prototypes  of  Veiento.  It  had  been  wild  weather 
when  I  left  Rome,  and  all  across  the  Campagna  the  clouds  were  sweeping 
in  sulphurous  blue,  with  a  clap  of  thunder  or  two,  and  breaking  gleams  of 
sun  along  the  Claudian  aqueduct  lighting  up  the  infinity  of  its  arches  like 
the  bridge  of  chaos.  But  as  1  climbed  the  long  slope  of  the  Alban  mount, 
the  storm  swept  finally  to  the  north,  and  the  noble  outline  of  the  domes  of 
Albano  and  graceful  darkness  of  its  ilex  grove  rose  against  pure  streaks  of 
alternate  blue  and  amber,  the  upper  sky  gradually  flushing  through  the 
last  fragments  of  rain-cloud  in  deep,  palpitating  azure,  half  ether  and  half- 
dew. 

The  noon-day  sun  came  slanting  down  the  rocky  slopes  of  La  Riccia,  and 
its  masses  of  entangled  and  tall  foliage,  whose  autumnal  tints  were  mixed 
with  the  wet  verdure  of  a  thousand  evergreens,  were  penetrated  with  it  t;s 


E  US  KIN.  269 


with  rain.  I  cannot  call  it  color,  it  was  conflagration.  Purple,  and  crimson, 
and  scarlet,  like  the  curtains  of  God's  tabernacle,  the  rejoicing  trees  sank 
into  the  valley  in  showers  of  light,  every  separate  leaf  quivered  with 
buoyant  and  burning  life ;  each,  as  it  turned  to  reflect  or  to  transmit  the 
sunbeam,  first  a  torch  and  then  an  emerald.  Far  up  into  the  recesses  of 
the  valley,  the  green  vistas  arched  like  the  hollows  of  mighty  waves  of 
some  crystalline  sea,  with  the  arbutus  flowers  dashed  along  their  flanks  for 
foam,  and  silver  flakes  of  orange  spray  tossed  into  the  air  around  them, 
breaking  over  the  gray  walls  of  rock  into  a  thousand  separate  stars,  fading 
and  kindling  alternately  as  the  weak  wind  lifted  and  let  them  fall.  Every 
blade  of  grass  burned  like  the  golden  floor  of  heaven,  opening  in  sudden 
gleams  as  the  foliage  broke  and  closed  above  it,  as  sheet-lightning  opens  in 
a  cloud  at  sunset ;  the  motionless  masses  of  dark  rock, — dark,  though  flushed 
with  scarlet  lichen, — casting  their  quiet  shadows  across  its  restless  radiance, 
the  fountain  underneath  them  filling  its  marble  hollow  with  blue  mist  and 
fitful  sound,  and  over  all, — the  multitudinous  bars  of  amber  and  rose,  the 
sacred  clouds  that  have  no  darkness,  and  only  exist  to  illumine,  were  seen 
in  fathomless  intervals  between  the  solemn  and  orbed  repose  of  the  stone 
pines,  passing  to  lose  themselves  in  the  last,  white,  blinding  lustre  of  the 
measureless  line  where  the  Campagna  melted  into  the  blaze  of  the  sea. 

The  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture  furnishes  our  remaining 
extracts.  We  quote  from  "  The  Lamp  of  Sacrifice." 

It  has  been  said — it  ought  always  to  be  said,  for  it  is  true — that  a  better 
and  a  more  honorable  offering  is  made  to  our  Master  in  ministry  to  the 
poor,  in  extending  the  knowledge  of  His  name,  in  the  practice  of  the 
virtues  by  which  that  name  is  hallowed,  than  in  material  presents  to  His 
temple.  Assuredly  it  is  so :  woe  to  all  who  think  that  any  other  kind  or 
manner  of  offering  may  in  any  wise  take  the  place  of  these!  Do  the 
people  need  place  to  pray,  and  calls  to  hear  His  word?  Then  it  is  no 
time  for  smoothing  pillars  and  carving  pulpits ;  let  us  have  enough  first  of 
walls  and  roofs.  Do  the  people  need  teaching  from  house  to  house,  and 
bread  from  day  to  day  ?  Then  they  are  deacons  and  ministers  we  want, 
not  architects.  I  insist  on  this,  I  plead  for  this ;  but  let  us  examine  our- 
selves, and  see  if  this  be  indeed  the  reason  for  our  backwardness  in  the 
lesser  work. 

The  question  is  not  between  God's  house  and  His  poor :  it  is  not  between 
God's  house  and  His  Gospel.  It  is  between  God's  house  and  ours.  Have 
we  no  tesselated  colors  on  our  floors  ?  no  frescoed  fancies  on  our  roofs  ?  no 
niched  statuary  in  our  corridors?  no  gilded  furniture  in  our  chambers?  no 
costly  stones  in  our  cabinets  ?  Has  even  the  tithe  of  these  been  offered  ? 
They  are,  or  they  ought  to  be,  the  signs  that  enough  has  been  devoted  to 
the  great  purpose  of  human  stewardship,  and  that  there  remains  to  us 
what  we  can  spend  in  luxury ;  but  there  is  a  greater  and  prouder  luxury 
than  this  selfish  one, — that  of  bringing  a  portion  of  such  things  as  these 
into  sacred  service,  and  presenting  them  for  a  memorial  that  our  pleasure 
as  well  as  our  toil  has  been  hallowed  by  the  remembrance  of  Him  who 
gave  both  the  strength  and  the  reward.  And  until  this  has  been  done,  1 
do  not  see  how  such  possessions  can  be  retained  in  happiness. 

I  do  not  understand  the  feeling  which  would  arch  our  own  gates  and 
pave  our  own  thresholds,  and  leave  the  church  with  its  narrow  door  and 
foot-worn  sill ;  the  feeling  which  enriches  our  own  chamber  with  all  man- 
23* 


270  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

ner  of  costliness,  and  endures  the  bare  wall  and  mean  compass  of  the 
temple.  There  is  seldom  even  so  severe  a  choice  to  be  made,  seldom  so 
much  self-denial  to  be  exercised.  There  are  isolated  cases,  in  which  men's 
happiness  and  mental  activity  depend  upon  a  certain  degree  of  luxury  in 
their  houses ;  but  then  this  is  true  luxury,  felt  and  tasted,  and  profited  by. 
In  the  plurality  of  instances  nothing  of  the  kind  is  attempted,  nor  can  be 
enjoyed ;  men's  average  resources  cannot  reach  it ;  and  that  which  they 
can  reach  gives  them  no  pleasure  and  might  be  spared. 

I  am  no  advocate  for  meanness  of  private  habitation.  I  would  fain  intro- 
duce into  it  all  magnificence,  care,  and  beauty,  when  they  are  possible ;  but  I 
would  not  have  that  useless  expense  in  unnoticed  fineries  or  formalities ; 
cornicings  of  ceilings  and  graining  of  doors,  and  fringing  of  curtains,  and 
thousands  such;  things  which  have  become  foolishly  and  apathetically 
habitual — things  on  whose  common  appliance  hang  whole  trades,  to  which 
there  never  yet  belonged  the  blessing  of  giving  one  ray  of  real  pleasure,  or 
becoming  of  the  remotest  or  most  contemptible  uses — things  which  cause 
half  the  expense  of  life,  and  destroy  more  than  half  its  comfort,  manliness, 
respectability,  freshness,  and  facility. 

I  speak  from  experience :  I  know  what  it  is  to  live  in  a  cottage  with  a 
deal  floor  and  roof,  and  a  hearth  of  mica  slate ;  and  I  know  it  to  be  in 
many  respects  healthier  and  happier  than  living  between  a  Turkey  carpet 
and  gilded  ceiling,  beside  a  steel  grate  and  polished  fender.  I  do  not  say 
that  such  things  have  not  their  place  and  propriety;  but  I  say  this, 
emphatically,  that  the  tenth  part  of  the  expense  which  is  sacrificed  in 
domestic  vanities,  if  not  absolutely  and  meaninglessly  lost  in  domestic 
discomforts  and  incumbrances,  would,  if  collectively  offered  and  wisely 
employed,  build  a  marble  church  for  every  town  in  England;  such  a 
church  as  it  should  be  a  joy  and  a  blessing  even  to  pass  near  in  our  daily 
ways  and  walks,  and  as  it  would  bring  the  light  into  the  eyes  to  see  from 
afar,  lifting  its  fair  height  above  the  purple  crowd  of  humble  roofs. 

Our  concluding  extract  is  from 

THE   LAMP   OF  MEMORY. 

Among  the  hours  of  his  life  to  which  the  writer  looks  back  with  peculiar 
gratitude,  as  having  been  marked  with  more  than  ordinary  fulness  of  joy 
or  clearness  of  teaching,  is  one  passed,  now  some  years  ago,  near  time  of 
sunset,  among  the  broken  masses  of  pine  forest  which  skirt  the  course  of 
the  Ain,  above  the  village  of  Champagnole,  in  the  Jura.  It  is  a  spot 
which  has  all  the  solemnity,  with  none  of  the  savageness  of  the  Alps; 
where  there  is  a  sense  of  a  great  power  beginning  to  be  manifested  in  the 
earth,  and  of  a  deep  and  majestic  concord  in  the  rise  of  the  long  low  lines 
of  piny  hills ;  the  first  utterance  of  those  mighty  mountain  symphonies, 
soon  to  be  more  loudly  lifted  and  wildly  broken  along  the  battlements  of 
the  Alps.  But  their  strength  is  as  yet  restrained ;  and  the  far-reaching 
ridges  of  pastoral  mountain  succeed  each  other,  like  the  long  and  sighing 
swell  which  moves  over  quiet  waters  from  some  far-off  stormy  sea. 

And  there  is  a  deep  tenderness  pervading  that  vast  monotony.  The 
destructive  forces  and  the  stern  expression  of  the  central  ranges  are  alike 
withdrawn.  No  frost-ploughed,  dust-encumbered  paths  of  ancient  glacier 
fret  the  soft  Jura  pastures;  no  splintered  heaps  of  ruin  break  the  fair 
ranks  of  her  forests ;  no  pale,  defiled,  or  furious  rivers  rend  their  rude  and 


R  US  KIN,  271 


changeful  ways  among  her  rocks.  Patiently,  eddy  by  eddy,  the  clear  green 
streams  wind  along  their  well-known  beds ;  and  under  the  dark  quietness 
of  the  undisturbed  pines,  there  spring  up,  year  by  year,  such  company  of 
joyful  flowers  as  I  know  not  the  like  of  among  all  the  blessings  of  the 
earth.  It  was  spring-time,  too;  and  all  were  coming  forth  in  clusters 
crowded  for  very  love ;  there  was  room  enough  for  all,  but  they  crushed 
their  leaves  into  all  manner  of  strange  shapes  only  to  be  nearer  each  other. 
There  was  the  wood  anemone,  star  after  star,  closing  every  now  and  then 
into  nebula? ;  and  there  was  the  oxalis,  troop  by  troop,  like  virginal  proces- 
sions of  the  Mois  de  Marie,  the  dark  vertical  clefts  in  the  limestone  choked 
up  with  them  as  with  heavy  snow,  and  touched  with  ivy  on  the  ed^es — ivy 
as  light  and  lovely  as  the  vine ;  and,  ever  and  anon,  a  blue  gush  of  violets, 
and  cowslip  bells  in  sunny  places ;  and  in  the  more  open  ground,  the  vetch, 
and  comfrey,  and  mezereon,  and  the  small  sapphire  buds  of  the  Polygala 
Alpina,  and  the  wild  strawberry,  just  a  blossom  or  two,  all  showered 
amidst  the  golden  softness  of  deep,  warm,  amber-colored  moss. 

I  came  out  presently  on  the  edge  of  the  ravine :  the  solemn  murmur  of 
its  waters  rose  suddenly  from  beneath,  mixed  with  the  singing  of  the  thrushes 
among  the  pine  boughs ;  and,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  valley,  walled  all 
along  as  it  was  by  gray  cliffs  of  limestone,  there  was  a  hawk  sailing  slowly 
off  their  brow,  touching  them  nearly  with  his  wings,  and  with  the  shadows 
of  the  pines  nickering  upon  his  plumage  from  above ;  but  with  a  fall  of  a 
hundred  fathoms  under  his  breast,  and  the  curling  pools  of  the  green  river 
gliding  and  glittering  dizzily  beneath  him,  their  foam  globes  moving  with 
him  as  he  flew. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  conceive  a  scene  less  dependent  upon  any  other 
interest  than  that  of  its  own  secluded  and  serious  beauty ;  but  the  writer 
well  remembers  the  sudden  blankness  and  chill  which  were  cast  upon  it 
when  he  endeavored,  in  order  more  strictly  to  arrive  at  the  sources  of  its 
impressiveness,  to  imagine  it,  for  a  moment,  a  scene  in  some  aboriginal  forest 
of  the  New  Continent.  The  flowers  in  an  instant  lost  their  light,  the  river 
its  music ;  the  hills  became  oppressively  desolate ;  a  heaviness  in  the  boughs 
of  the  darkened  forest  showed  how  much  of  their  former  power  had  been 
dependent  upon  a  life  which  was  not  theirs,  how  much  of  the  glory  of  the 
imperishable,  or  continually  renewed,  creation  is  reflected  from  things  more 
precious  in  their  memories"  than  it,  in  its  renewing.  Those  ever  springing 
flowers  and  ever  flowing  streams  had  been  dyed  by  the  deep  colors  of  human 
endurance,  valor,  and  virtue ;  and  the  crests  of  the  sable  hills  that  rose 
against  the  evening  sky  received  a  deeper  worship,  because  their  far  shadows 
fell  eastward  over  the  iron  wall  of  Joux  and  the  four-square  keep  of 
Granson. 

It  is  as  the  centralization  and  protectress  of  this  sacred  influence,  that 
Architecture  is  to  be  regarded  by  us  with  the  most  serious  thought.  We 
may  live  without  her,  and  worship  without  her,  but  we  cannot  remember 
without  her.  How  cold  is  all  history,  how  lifeless  all  imagery,  compared 
to  that  which  the  living  nation  writes,  and  the  uncorrupted  marble  bears ! 
how  many  pages  of  doubtful  record  might  we  not  often  spare,  for  a  few 
stones  left  one  upon  another !  The  ambition  of  the  old  Babel  builders  was 
well  directed  for  this  world :  there  are  but  two  strong  conquerors  of  the  for- 
getfulness  of  men,  Poetry  and  Architecture;  and  the  latter  in  some  sort 
includes  the  former,  and  is  mightier1  in  its  reality;  it  is  well  to  have,  not 
only  what  men  have  thought  and  felt,  but  what  their  hands  have  handled, 
and  their  strength  wrought,and  their  eyes  beheld,  all  the  days  of  their  life. 


272  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


The  age  of  Homer  is  surrounded  with  darkness,  his  very  personality  with 
doubt.  Not  so  that  of  Pericles :  and  the  day  is  coming  when  we  shall  con- 
fess, that  we  have  learned  more  of  Greece  out  of  the  crumbled  fragments 
of  her  sculpture  than  even  from  her  sweet  singers  or  soldier  historians. 
And  if  indeed  there  be  any  profit  in  our  knowledge  of  the  past,  or  any  joy 
in  the  thought  of  being  remembered  hereafter,  which  can  give  strength  to 
present  exertion,  or  patience  to  present  endurance,  there  are  two  duties 
respecting  national  architecture  whose  importance  it  is  impossible  to  over- 
rate ;  the  first,  to  render  the  architecture  of  the  day  historical ;  and,  the 
second,  to  preserve,  as  the  most  precious  of  inheritances,  that  of  past  ages. 

"Less  than  almost  any  other  author  can  he  be  judged  by  his 
worst  passages.  It  is  impossible,  indeed,  to  consider  his  many  and 
multifarious  works  as  containing  a  great  body  of  sound  criticism. 
They  have  too  deep  an  impress  throughout  of  his  self-will  and 
eccentricity  for  us  ever  to  accept  his  judgments  without  a  degree 
of  hesitation  and  distrust.  He  is  a  thorough  partisan ;  and  appears 
to  see  no  merit  in  what  he  dislikes,  no  faults  in  what  he  is  pleased 
to  admire.  He  praises  excellence,  but  we  must  understand  it  as 
excellence  in  the  abstract;  we  can  never  feel  sure  that  the  par- 
ticular person  or  object  on  which  his  remarks  are  made  is  excellent. 
So,  too,  with  his  blame;  we  are  never  certain  that  the  objects  to 
which  it  is  applied  deserve  it.  We  may  learn  more,  perhaps,  from 
his  writings  than  from  almost  any  others  in  the  world ;  but  we  must 
discriminate  for  ourselves,  and  not  follow  blindly  where  our  guide 
is  so  exceedingly  apt  to  lead  us  into  error."  * 

"  No  man  has  said  truer  or  finer  things  than  Buskin ;  no  man 
has  taken  greater  liberties  with  the  common  sense  of  his  readers. 
His  contempt  of  all  that  is  little  and  mean,  his  fidelity  to  all  that 
is  true  and  good,  his  noble  religious  faith  and  sentiment,  his  fear- 
lessness, chivalry,  and  prophetic  fervor,  are  beyond  all  praise.  His 
paradoxes  are  most  provoking.  In  spite  of  many  faults  of  con- 
struction, Buskin  is  the  most  effective  of  English  writers.  His 
eloquence  and  fervor  carry  all  before  them.  He  shows  to  greatest 
advantage  in  select  passages.  Paragraphs  might  be  selected  from 
his  writings  which  are  the  finest  specimens  of  prose-poetry  which 
this  generation  has  produced ;  and  apart  from  such,  there  is  a  gen- 
eral eloquence  and  suggest! ven ess  of  expression,  which  fills  his 
style  with  rich  harmony  and  color.  Buskin  is  a  preacher  rather 
than  an  art-critic.  He  preaches  about  the  moral  aims  and  ends 
of  art,  about  its  relations  to  life,  and  about  the  life  to  which  it  has 
relation,  and  he  inspires  us  with  fine  noble  sentiment.  He  also 
says  many  true  things  about  the  theory  of  art,  but  his  theory  of 
art  is  not,  therefore,  always  true."  f 


Westminster  Review,  Oct.,  1863.  t  British  Quarterly  Review,  Oct.,  1870. 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY. 


THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY  was  born  of  well-to-do  parents  near 
Manchester,  August  15,  1785.  His  father  dying  in  1793,  young 
De  Quincey  was  left  in  care  of  a  guardian,  who  but  imperfectly 
appreciated  the  morbidly  sensitive  temperament  and  precociously 
active  faculties  of  his  ward.  After  several  years  of  schooling 
at  Bath  and  at  Winkfield,  he  desired  his  guardian  to  send  him 
to  the  University  of  Oxford  ;  and  failing  to  secure  this  privilege, 
he  ran  away  from  his  tutor,  and  "set  off  on  foot,  carrying  a 
small  parcel  with  some  articles  of  dress  under  his  arm  ;  a  small 
English  poet  in  one  pocket,  and  a  small  duodecimo  volume,  con- 
taining about  nine  plays  of  Euripides,  in  the  other." 

This  was  the  beginning  of  an  extensive  tramp  through  parts 
of  England  and  Wales,  during  which,  he  tells  us,  he  lodged  at 
farm-houses,  subsisted  on  way-side  berries,  and  on  such  casual 
hospitality  as  he  received  in  return  for  writing  letters  of  bus- 
iness for  cottagers,  and  love-epistles  for  young  serving-women  to 
their  sweethearts.  At  length,  after  long  wanderings,  he  arrived 
in  London,  where,  for  about  four  months,  he  frequently  suffered 
the  keenest  pangs  of  hunger,  and  endured  all  the  miseries  inci- 
dent to  a  penniless  and  friendless  lad.  Then  a  reconciliation  was 
effected  with  his  relatives,  and  in  1803  he  attained  his  desire  of 
entering  Oxford. 

It  was  during  the  next  year,  1804,  that  De  Quincey,  by  resort- 
ing to  opium  to  lull  certain  rheumatic  pains,  took  the  fatal  step, 
that  imparted  to  all  his  after  life  its  sad,  phantasmagorial  char- 
acter. The  remaining  incidents  of  his  life  are  few,  and,  as 
compared  with  the  one  last  named,  trivial.  In  1809  he  took  a 
cottage  at  Grasmere,  and  for  the  ensuing  ten  years  lived  there, 
in  almost  daily  intercourse  with  his  noted  neighbors — Words- 
worth, Coleridge,  Southey,  and  Wilson.  In  1821,  we  find  him 
again  in  London, — not  friendless  and  unknown,  however;  but 

S  273 


274  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

with  Lamb,  Hazlitt,  Hood,  and  other  eminent  litterateurs  as 
associates,  engaged  in  writing  for  the  "London  Magazine." 
Finally  we  meet  him  in  Edinburgh,  as  one  of  the  famous  "  Black- 
wood  "  clique.  Through  the  periodicals  just  named,  and  others 
of  the  day,  De  Quincey,  for  nearly  half  a  century  exhibited  to 
the  literary  world  the  unique  and  dazzling  phases  of  his  genius 
as  a  writer,  in  a  brilliant  succession  of  autobiographic  sketches, 
literary  reminiscences,  essays,  and  historical,  philosophical,  and 
critical  dissertations.  He  died  in  Edinburgh,  December  8, 
1859. 

The  following  extract,  from  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium- 
Eater,  will,  we  think,  convey  a  pretty  fair  idea  of  De  Quincey 's 
graphic  style,  while  it  reveals  the  stages  of  growth  of  the  masterly 
horror  that  afflicted  his  whole  being : 

In  the  early  stage  of  my  malady,  the  splendors  of  my  dreams  were 
chiefly  architectural ;  and  I  beheld  such  pomp  of  cities  and  palaces  as  was 
never  yet  beheld  by  the  waking  eye,  unless  in  the  clouds To  my  archi- 
tecture succeeded  dreams  of  lakes,  and  silvery  expanses  of  water :  these 
haunted  me  so  much,  that  I  feared  (though  possibly  it  will  appear  ludicrous 
to  a  medical  man)  that  some  dropsical  state  or  tendency  of  the  brain  might 
thus  be  making  itself  (to  use  a  metaphysical  word)  objective,  and  the  sentient 
organ  project  itself  as  its  own  object 

The  waters  now  changed  their  character, — from  translucent  lakes,  shining 
like  mirrors,  they  now  became  seas  and  oceans.  And  now  came  a  tremen- 
dous change,  which,  unfolding  itself  slowly  like  a  scroll,  through  many 
months,  promised  an  abiding  torment ;  and,  in  fact,  it  never  left  me  until 
the  winding  up  of  my  case.  Hitherto  the  human  face  had  often  mixed  in 
my  dreams,  but  not  despotically,  nor  with  any  special  power  of  tormenting. 
But  now  that  which  I  have  called  the  tyranny  of  the  human  face,  began  to 
unfold  itself.  Perhaps  some  part  of  my  London  life  might  be  answerable 
for  this.  Be  that  as  it  may,  now  it  was  that  upon  the  rocking  waters  of  the 
ocean  the  human  face  began  to  appear;  the  sea  appeared  paved  with 
innumerable  faces,  upturned  to  the  heavens;  faces,  imploring,  wrathful, 
despairing,  surged  upwards  by  thousands,  by  myriads,  by  generations,  by 
centuries :  my  agitation  was  infinite,  my  mind  tossed,  and  surged  with  the 
ocean. 

I  know  not  whether  others  share  in  my  feelings  on  this  point ;  but  I  have 
often  thought  that  if  I  were  compelled  to  forego  England,  and  to  live  in 
China,  and  among  Chinese  manners  and  modes  of  life  and  scenery,  I  should 
go  mad.  I  could  sooner  live  with  lunatics,  or  brute  animals.  This,  and 
much  more  than  I  can  say,  or  have  time  to  say,  the  reader  must  enter  into, 
before  he  can  comprehend  the  unimaginable  horror  which  these  dreams  of 
oriental  imagery,  and  mythological  tortures,  impressed  upon  me.  Under 
the  connecting  feeling  of  tropical  heat  and  vertical  sunlights,  I  brought 
together  all  creatures,  birds,  beasts,  reptiles,  all  trees  and  plants,  usages  and 
appearances,  that  are  found  in  all  tropical  regions,  and  assembled  'them 
together  in  China  or  indostan. 


DE   QUINCEY.  275 


From  kindred  feelings,  I  soon  brought  Egypt  and  all  her  goods  under 
the  same  law.  I  was  stared  at,  hooted  at,  grinned  at,  chattered  at,  by  mon- 
keys, by  paroquets,  by  cockatoos.  I  ran  into  pagodas,  and  was  fixed  for 
centuries,  at  the  summit,  or  in  secret  rooms :  I  was  the  idol ;  I  was  the 
priest;  I  was  worshiped;  I  was  sacrificed.  I  fled  from  the  wrath  of 
Brama  through  all  the  forests  of  Asia:  Vishnu  hated  me:  Seeva  laid  wait 
for  me.  I  came  suddenly  upon  Isis  and  Osiris.  I  had  done  a  deed,  they 
said,  which  the  ibis  and  the  crocodile  trembled  at.  I  was  buried,  for  a 
thousand  years,  in  stone  coffins,  with  mummies  and  sphinxes,  in  narrow 
chambers  at  the  heart  of  eternal  pyramids.  I  was  kissed,  with  cancerous 
kisses,  by  crocodiles ;  and  laid,  confounded  with  all  unutterable  slimy 
things,  amongst  reeds  and  Nilotic  mud. 

Sooner  or  later  came  a  reflex  of  feeling  that  swallowed  up  the  astonish- 
ment, and  left  me,  not  so  much  in  terror,  as  in  hatred  and  abomination  of 
what  I  saw.  Over  every  form,  and  threat,  and  punishment,  and  dim  sight- 
less incarceration,  brooded  a  sense  of  eternity  and  infinity  that  drove  me 
into  an  oppression  as  of  madness.  Into  these  dreams  only,  it  was,  with  one 
or  two  slight  exceptions,  that  any  circumstances  of  physical  horror  entered. 
All  before  had  been  moral  and  spiritual  terrors.  But  here  the  main  agents 
were  ugly  birds,  or  snakes,  or  crocodiles,  especially  the  last.  The  cursed 
crocodile  became  to  me  the  object  of  more  horror  than  almost  all  the  rest. 
I  was  compelled  to  live  with  him ;  and  (as  was  always  the  case,  almost,  in 
my  dreams)  for  centuries.  I  escaped  sometimes,  and  found  myself  in  Chi- 
nese houses  with  cane  tables,  etc.  All  the  feet  of  the  tables,  sofas,  etc., 
soon  became  instinct  with  life :  the  abominable  head  of  the  crocodile,  and 
his  leering  eyes,  looked  out  at  me,  multiplied  into  a  thousand  repetitions ; 
and  I  stood  loathing  and  fascinated.  And  so  often  did  this  hideous  reptile 
haunt  my  dreams,  that  many  times  the  very  same  dream  was  broken  up  in 
the  very  same  way. 

I  heard  gentle  voices  speaking  to  me  (I  hear  everything  when  I  am 
sleeping),  and  instantly  I  awoke :  it  was  broad  noon,  and  my  children  were 
standing,  hand  in  hand,  at  my  bedside ;  coine  to  show  me  their  colored 
shoes,  or  new  frocks,  or  to  let  me  see  them  dressed  for  going  out.  I  protest 
that  so  awful  was  the  transition  from  the  damned  crocodile,  and  the  other 
unutterable  monsters  and  abortions  of  my  dreams,  to  the  sight  of  innocent 
human  natures  and  of  infancy,  that,  in  the  mighty  and  sudden  revulsion  of 
mind,  I  wept,  and  could  not  forbear  it,  as  I  kissed  their  faces. 

From  the  essay  on  The  English  Mail- Coach,  we  present  an 
extract  from 

THE  VISION  OF  SUDDEN  DEATH. 

Under  this  steady  though  rapid  anticipation  of  the  evil  which  might  be 
gathering  ahead,  ah  !  what  a  sudden  mystery  qf  fear,  what  a  sigh  of  woe, 
was  that  which  stole  upon  the  air,  as  again  the  far-off  sound  of  a  wheel 
was  heard  ?  A  whisper  it  was — a  whisper  from,  perhaps,  four  miles  off' — 
secretly  announcing  a  ruin  that,  being  foreseen,  was  not  the  less  inevitable ; 
that,  being  known,  was  not,  therefore,  healed.  What  could  be  done— who 
was  it  that  could  do  it — to  check  the  storm-flight  of  these  maniacal  horses  ? 
Could  I  not  seize  the  reins  from  the  grasp  of  the  slumbering  coachman  ? 
You,  reader,  think  that  it  would  have  been  in  your  power  to  do  so.  And  I 
quarrel  not  with  your  estimate  of  yourself.  But,  from  the  way  in  which 
the  coachman's  hand  was  vised  between  his  upper  and  lower  thigh,  this 


276  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

was  impossible.  Easy,  was  it?  See,  then,  that  bronze  equestrian  statue. 
The  cruel  rider  has  kept  the  bit  in  his  horse's  mouth  for  two  centuries. 
Unbridle  him,  for  a  minute,  if  you  please,  and  wash  his  mouth  with  water. 
Easy,  was  it  ?  Unhorse  me,  then,  that  imperial  rider ;  knock  me  those 
marble  feet  from  those  marble  stirrups  of  Charlemagne.  .  .  . 

Before  us  lay  an  avenue, "straight  as  an  arrow,  six  hundred  yards,  per- 
haps, in  length ;  and  the  umbrageous  trees,  which  rose  in  a  regular  line 
from  either  side,  meeting  high  overhead,  gave  to  it  the  character  of  a 
cathedral  aisle.  These  trees  lent  a  deeper  solemnity  to  the  early  light ; 
but  there  was  still  light  enough  to  perceive,  at  the  further  end  of  this 
Gothic  aisle,  a  frail  reedy  gig,  in  which  were  seated  a  young  man,  and  by 
his  side  a  young  lady.  Ah,  young  sir!  what  are  you  about?  If  it  is 
requisite  that  you  should  whisper  your  communications  to  this  young  lady 
— though  really  I  see  nobody,  at  an  hour  and  on  a  road  so  solitary,  likely 
to  overhear  you — is  it  therefore  requisite  that  you  should  carry  your  lips 
forward  to  hers  ? 

The  little  carriage  is  creeping  on  at  one  mile  an  hour ;  and  the  parties 
within  it  being  thus  tenderly  engaged,  are  naturally  bending  down  their 
heads.  Between  them  and  eternity,  to  all  human  calculation,  there  is  but 
a  minute  and  a  half.  Oh  heavens!  what  is  it  that  I  shall  do?  Speaking 
or  acting,  what  help  can  I  offer?  Strange  it  is,  and  to  a  mere  auditor  of 
the  tale  might  seem  laughable,  that  I  should  need  a  suggestion  from  the 
"  Iliad"  to  prompt  the  sole  resource  that  remained.  Yet  so  it  was.  Sud- 
denly I  remembered  the  shout  of  Achilles,  and  its  effect.  But  could  I 
pretend  to  shout  like  the  son  of  Peleus,  aided  by  Pallas?  No:  but  then  I 
needed  not  the  shout  that  should  alarm  all  Asia  militant;  such  a  shout 
would  suffice  as  might  carry  terror  into  the  hearts  of  two  thoughtless  young 
people,  and  cne  gig  horse.  I  shouted— and  the  young  man  heard  me  not. 
A  second  time  1  shouted — and  now  he  heard  me,  for  now  he  raised  his 
head.  .  .  . 

Pie  saw,  he  heard,  he  comprehended,  the  ruin  that  was  coming  down : 
already  its  gloomy  shadow  darkened  above  him  ;  and  already  he  was  meas- 
uring his  strength  to  deal  wath  it.  Ah  !  what  a  vulgar  thing  does  courage 
seem,  when  we  see  nations  buying  it  and  selling  it  for  a  shilling  a-day : 
ah  !  what  a  sublime  thing  does"  courage  seem,  when  some  fearful  summons 
on  the  great  deeps  of  life  carries  a  man,  as  if  running  before  a  hurricane, 
up  to  the  giddy  crest  of  some  tumultuous  crisis,  from  which  lie  two  courses, 
ani  a  voice  says  to  him  audibly,  "One  way  lies  hope;  take  the  other,  and 
mourn  forever ! "  How  grand  a  triumph,  if,  even  then,  amidst  the  raving 
of  all  around  him,  and  the  frenzy  of  the  danger,  the  man  is  able  to  con- 
front his  situation — is  able  to  retire  for  a  moment  into  solitude  with  God, 
and  to  seek  his  counsel  from  him  ! 

For  seven  seconds,  it  might  be,  of  his  seventy,  the  stranger  settled  his 
countenance  steadfastly  upon  us,  as  if  to  search  and  value  every  element  in 
the  conflict  before  him.  For  five  seconds  more  of  his  seventy  he  sat 
immovably,  like  one  that  mused  on  some  great  purpose.  For  five  more, 
perhaps,  he  sat  with  eyes  upraised,  like  one  that  prayed  in  sorrow,  under 
some  extremity  of  doubt,  for  light  that  should  guide  him  to  the  better 
choice.  Then  suddenly  he  rose,  stood  upright,  and  by  a  powerful  strain 
upon  the  reinsj  raisini>-  his  horse's  forefeet  from  the  ground,  he  slewed  him 
round  on  the  pivot  of  his  hind  legs,  so  as  to  plant  tho  little  equipage  in  a 
position  nearly  at  right  angles  to  ours.  Thus  far  his  condition  was  not 
improved,  except  as  a  first  step  had  been  taken  towards  the  possibility  of  a 


DE    QUINCEY.  277 


second.  If  no  more  were  done,  nothing  was  done ;  for  the  little  carriage 
still  occupied  the  very  center  of  our  path,  though  in  an  altered  direction. 
Yet  even  now  it  may  not  be  too  late :  fifteen  of  the  seventy  seconds  may 
still  be  unexhausted ;  and  one  almighty  bound  may  avail  to  clear  the 
ground.  Hurry,  then  hurry !  for  the  flying  moments — they  hurry !  Oh, 
hurry,  hurry,  my  brave  young  man !  for  the  cruel  hoofs  of  our  horses — 
they  also  hurry  !  Fast  are  the  flying  moments,  faster  are  the  hoofs  of  our 
horses. 

But  fear  not  for  him,  if  human  energy  can  suffice ;  faithful  was  he  that 
drove  to  his  terrific  duty ;  faithful  was  the  horse  to  Ins  command.  One 
blow,  one  impulse  given  with  voice  and  hand,  by  the  stranger,  one  rush 
from  the  horse,  one  bound  as  if  in  the  act  of  rising  to  a  fence,  landed  the 
docile  creature's  fore-feet  upon  the  crown  or  arching  center  of  the  road. 
The  larger  half  of  the  little  equipage  had  then  cleared  our  overtowering 
shadow :  that  was  evident  even  to  my  own  agitated  sight.  But  it  mattered 
little  that  one  wreck  should  float  off  in  safety,  if  upon  the  \vreck  that  per- 
ished were  embarked  the  human  freightage.  The  rear  part  of  the  carriage 
— was  that  certainly  beyond  the  line  of  absolute  ruin?  Glance  of  eve, 
thought  of  man,  wing  of  angel,  which  of  these  had  speed  enough  to  sweep 
between  the  question  and  the  answer,  and  divide  the  one  from  the  other? 

Faster  than  ever  mill-race  we  ran  past  them  in  our  inexorable  flight. 
Oh,  raving  of  hurricanes  that  must  have  sounded  in  their  young  ears  at  the 
moment  of  our  transit !  Even  in  that  moment  the  thunder  of  collision 
spoke  aloud.  Either  with  the  swingle-bar,  or  with  the  haunch  of  our  near 
leader,  we  had  struck  the  off  wheel  of  the  little  gig,  which  stood  rather 
obliquely,  and  not  quite  so  far  advanced  as  to  be  accurately  parallel  with 
the  near  wheel.  The  blow,  from  the  fury  of  our  passage,  resounded  ter- 
rifically. I  rose  in  horror,  to  gaze  upon  the  ruins  we  might  have  caused. 
From  my  elevated  station  1  looked  down,  and  looked  back  upon  the  scene, 
which  in  a  moment  told  its  own  tale,  and  wrote  all  its  records  on  my  heart 
forever. 

Here  was  the  map  of  the  passion  that  now  had  finished.  The  horse  was 
planted  immovably,  with  his  fore-feet  upon  the  paved  crest  of  the  central 
road.  He  of  the  whole  party  might  be  supposed  untouched  by  the  passion 
of  death.  The  little  cany  carriage— partly,  perhaps,  from  the  violent 
torsion  of  the  wheels  in  its  recent  movement,  partly  from  the  thundering 
blow  we  had  given  to  it — as  if  it  sympathized  with  human  horror,  was  all 
alive  with  tremblings  and  shiverings.  The  young  man  trembled  not,  nor 
shivered.  He  sat  like  a  rock.  But  his  was  the  steadiness  of  agitation 
frozen  into  rest  by  horror.  As  yet  he  dared  not  to  look  round;  for  he 
knew  that,  if  anything  remained  to  do,  by  him  it  could  no  longer  be  done. 
And  as  yet  he  knew  not  for  certain  if  their  safety  were  accomplished. 
But  the  lady  — 

But  the  lady !  Oh,  heavens !  will  that  spectacle  ever  depart  from  my 
dreams,  as  she  rose  and  sank  upon  her  seat,  sank  and  rose,  threw  up  her 
arms  wildly  to  heaven,  clutched  at  some  visionary  object  in  the  air,  faint- 
ing, praying,  raving,  despairing?  Figure  to  yourself,  reader,  the  elements 
of  the  case ;  suffer  me  to  recall  before  your  mind  the  circumstances  of  that 
unparalleled  situation.  From  the  silence  and  deep  peace  of  this  saintly 
summer  night — from  the  pathetic  blending  of  this  sweet  moonlight,  dawn- 
light,  dreamlight — from  the  manly  tenderness  of  this  flattering  whispering, 
murmuring  love — suddenly  as  from  the  woods  and  fields— suddenly  as  from 
the  chambers  of  the  air  opening  in  revelation— suddenly  as  from  the  ground 
24 


278  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

yawning  at  her  feet,  leaped  upon  her,  with  the  flashing  of  cataracts,  Death, 
the  crowned  phantom,  with  all  the  equipage  of  his  terrors,  and  the  tiger 
roar  of  his  voice. 

The  moments  were  numbered ;  the  strife  was  finished ;  the  vision  was 
closed.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  our  flying  horses  had  carried  us  to  the 
termination  of  the  umbrageous  aisle ;  at  right  angles  we  wheeled  into  our 
former  direction ;  the  turn  of  the  road  carried  the  scene  out  of  my  eyes  in 
an  instant,  and  swept  it  into  my  dreams  forever. 

"That  De  Quincey  could  write  with  a  force  and  elegance  seldom 
attained  to,  will  be  questioned  by  no  one  even  superficially  ac- 
quainted with  his  works;  such  essays  as  'The  Theban  Sphynx,' 
and  '  Protestantism/  could  only  have  been  written  by  a  consum- 
mate master  of  style  as  well  as  an  ingenious  and  subtle  thinker; 
but  these  excellencies  are  often  obscured  behind  a  cloud  of  ram- 
bling words  in  which  the  ideas  float  loosely  and  feebly,  and  make 
us  involuntarily  think  of  the  daily  half-pint  of  laudanum  under 
whose  deadly  thrall  those  brilliant  faculties  were  benumbed. 
Sometimes  page  follows  page  of  such  just  thinking  and  scholarly 
writing,  that  we  seem  to  be  going  on  prosperously  to  the  goal  where 
we  shall  find  the  solid  result,  in  the  form  of  a  distinct  idea  or  a 
piece  of  definite,  trustworthy  knowledge  ;  but  no — this  we  hardly 
ever  do  find;  we  are  suddenly  drawn  aside  into  some  vexatious 
byway,  or  plunged  into  a  thicket  of  conjectural  interjections,  or 
decoyed  into  labyrinthine  notes  which  lead,  only  too  seductively, 
far  away  from  the  question  in  hand.  ...  In  spite  of  their  many 
faults  of  diffuseness,  vagueness,  and  rambling  incompleteness, 
many  of  these  essays  exhibit  a  mastery  of  language  and  rare  felic- 
ity of  expression  seldom  to  be  equalled  in  modern  literature."  * 

LIST  OF  WORKS. 

Vol.  I.  Confessions  of  an  English  Opium-Eater. 

"    II.  Biographical  Essays. 

"  III.  Miscellaneous  Essays. 

"  IV.  The  Csesars. 

"    V.  Life  and  Manners. 
Vols.  VI.  and  VII.  Literary  Reminiscences. 

"     VIII.  and  IX.  Narrative  and  Miscellaneous  Papers. 
Vol.  X.  Essays  on  the  Poets  and  Other  English  Writers. 
Vols.  XI.  and  XII.  Historical  and  Critical  Essays. 

"     XIII.  and  XIV.  Essays  on  Philosophical  Writers,  etc. 
Vol.  XV.  Letters  to  a  Young  Man,  etc. 

Vols.  XVI.  and  XVII.  Theological  Essays  and  Other  Papers. 
Vol.  XVIII.  Note-Book  of  an  English  Opium-Eater. 
Vols.  XIX.  and  XX.  Memorials  and  Other  Papers. 

*  Westminster  Renew,  January,  1863. 


JOHN    WILSON. 


JOHN  WILSON,  better  known  as  "  Christopher  North,"  was 
Lorn  at  Paisley,  Scotland,  May  18,  1785.  He  entered  Glasgow 
College  in  1797,  where  he  remained  four  years,  engaged  in, 
besides  the  usual  studies,  the  writing  of  essays  and  poems,  love- 
making,  arid  all  manner  of  athletic  sports, — in  all  of  which  he 
is  confessed  to  have  stood  foremost.  He  next  passed  to  Oxford, 
and  there  entered  himself  as  a  gentleman-commoner  of  Mag- 
dalen College. 

College  days  past,  he  settled  in  1807  on  the  picturesque  estate 
of  Ellery,  in  Cumberland,  on  Lake  Winderrnere.  Here,  in  daily 
intercourse  with  such  rare  spirits  as  the  Coleridges,  Southey, 
Lloyd,  Wordsworth,  and  De  Quincey,  all  of  whom  dwelt  within 
easy  reach  ;  in  his  loved  recreations  of  boating,  fishing,  hunting, 
and  cock-fighting;  in  daily,  and  oft-times  nightly,  excursions  on 
foot  over  the  hills  and  mountains  of  the  neighborhood;  and  also 
in  literary  occupation,  he  spent  most  enjoy  ably  the  next  eight 
years  of  his  life. 

His  first  effort  as  an  author  of  poetry  was  put  forth  during 
this  period ;  resulting  in  the  publication,  in  1812,  of  the  Isle 
of  Palms,  and  minor  poems.  The  poem  lacked  all  of  those 
elements — passion,  humor,  high  spirits,  that  afterward  came  to 
be  so  characteristic  of  Wilson's  writings, — a  pure  elevated  tone 
and  a  musical  versification  being  almost  its  only  commendable 
qualities.  Himself  dissatisfied  with  this  first  venture,  he  made, 
four  years  later,  in  The  Qity  of  the  Plague,  a  second  experiment, 
with  the  determination  that,  if  it  did  not  prove  more  acceptable 
to  the  public  than  the  first,  it  should  be  his  last.  And  although 
it  was  generally  conceded  that  the  latter  was  a  much  superior 
production,  being  intenser,  more  evenly  sustained,  fuller  of  nat- 
ural beauty  and  human  sympathy,  yet  it  did  prove  his  last  court 
to  the  Muse. 

279 


280  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

In  1815,  in  consequence  of  the  entire  loss  of  his  fortune 
through  the  ill-management  of  an  uncle,  he  removed  to  Edin- 
burgh, and  was  then  and  there  admitted  to  the  Scottish  Bar ; 
but  it  can  hardly  be  said  that  he  ever  entered  on  the  practice 
of  law.  Two  years  later,  he  began  his  long  and  illustrious 
career  as  a  litterateur  simultaneously  with  the  starting  of 
"  Blackwood's  Magazine."  Of  this  magazine  he  was  made  the 
editor,  and  through  its  pages,  for  a  period  of  thirty-five  years, 
he  charmed  and  dazzled  the  public  with  sketches  of  personal 
adventure,  criticisms  upon  books  arid  authors,  and  the  most 
brilliant  and  fantastic  essays. 

Through  "  Blackwood  "  appeared  the  original  papers,  since 
collected  and  published  under  the  titles,  Lights  and  Shadows  of 
Scottish  Life  (1822),  The  Genius  and  Character  of  Burns  (1841), 
Critical  and  Miscellaneous  Articles  (1842),  Recreations  of  Chris- 
topher North  (1842),  Nodes  Ambrosiance  (1843),  Specimens  of 
the  British  Critics  (1846),  and  his  last  work,  Dies  Boreales 
(1850).  Besides  these,  Wilson  published  in  book  form,  in  1823, 
a  tale  entitled  The  Trials  of  Margaret  Lindsay,  and  two  years 
later,  another  called  the  Foresters,  together  with  a  volume  of 
Poems  and  Dramatic  Pieces.  , 

Collaterally  with  his  editorial  life,  Wilson  led  that  also  of 
Professor  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh, 
lecturing  daily  during  five  months  of  the  year. 

"  He  did  what  was  better  than  any  pretended  additions  to  the 
sum  of  human  knowledge  in  the  domain  of  Moral  Philosophy: 
he  gave,  to  the  best  of  his  capacity,  what  was  certainly  neither 
shallow  nor  contemptible,  an  exposition  of  the  motives  of  human 
action ;  the  grounds  of  the  distinction  between  virtue  and  vice ; 
the  effects  of  the  passions ;  the  duties  of  man  as  an  individual, 
a  member  of  society,  and  an  immortal  creature  accountable  to 
God.  These  topics  he  analyzed  with  no  common  acuteness,  and 
illustrated  with  an  eloquence  which  has  not  been  in  modern  times 
surpassed  in  any  university  chair.  And  thus  he  won  the  attention 
and  fascinated  the  hearts  of  thirty  annual  successions  of  Scottish 
students,  stimulating  them  to  generous  ambition,  and  a  love  of  all 
things  pure,  and  lovely,  and  of  good  report;  while  in  his  private 
relations  they  ever  found  him  a  sympathetic  friend  and  counselor, 
a  man  full  of  the  milk  of  human  kindness,  and  so  utterly  destitute 
of  academic  pride  or  reserve,  that  he  was  never  ashamed  to  confess 


WILSON.  281 


his  difficulties,  and  did  not  disdain  to  open  them  in  discussion  even 
with  ingenuous  boys."  * 

Frcm  both  these  spheres  of  labor  and  renown,  this  man,  active, 
strong,  and  beautiful  alike  in  person  and  mind,  was  removed,  in 
1852,  by  the  gripe  of  rheumatism  and  paralysis.  Decrepit  and 
demented,  he  died  April  3,  1854. 

From  the  volume  containing  The  City  of  the  Plague  we  quote 
what  has  been  very  generally  regarded  as  one  of  Wilson's  hap- 
piest poetical  efforts,  the 

ADDRESS  TO  A  WILD  DEER. 

Magnificent  creature !   so  stately  and  bright ! 
In  the  pride  of  thy  spirit  pursuing  thy  flight; 
For  what  hath  the  child  of  the  desert  to  dread, 
Wafting  up  his  own  mountains  that  far-beaming  head ; 
Or  borne  like  a  whirlwind  down  on  the  vale? — 
Hail !     King  of  the  wild  and  the  beautiful ! — hail ! 
Hail!     Idol  divine! — whom  Nature  hath  borne 
O'er  a  hundred  hill-tops  since  the  mists  of  the  morn, 
Whom  the  pilgrim  lone  wandering  on  mountain  and  moor, 
As  the  vision  glides  by  him,  may  blameless  adore ; 
For  the  joy  of  the  happy,  the  strength  of  the  free 
Are  spread  in  a  garment  of  glory  o'er  thee. 

Up!  up  to  yon  cliff!   like  a  King  to  his  throne! 
O'er  the  black  silent  forest  piled  lofty  and  lone — 
A  throne  which  the  eagle  is  glad  to  resign 
Unto  footsteps  so  fleet  and  so  fearless  as  thine. 
There  the  bright  heather  springs  up  in  love  of  thy  breast — 
Lo!   the  clouds  in  the  depth  of  the  sky  are  at  rest; 
And  the  race  of  the  wild  winds  is  o'er  on  the  hill! 
In  the  hush  of  the  mountains,  ye  antlers  lie  still — 
Though  your  branches  now  toss  in  the  storm  of  delight, 
Like  the  arms  of  the  pine  on  yon  shelterless  height, 
One  moment — thou  bright  Apparition! — delay! 
Then  melt  o'er  the  crags,  like  the  sun  from  the  day. 

Aloft  on  the  weather-gleam,  scorning  the  earth, 
The  wild  spirit  hung  in  majestical  mirth; 
In  dalliance  with  danger,  he  bounded  in  bliss, 
O'er  the  fathomless  gloom  of  each  moaning  abyss ; 
O'er  the  grim  rocks  careering  with  prosperous  motion, 
Like  a  ship  by  herself  in  full  sail  o'er  the  ocean! 


*  British  Quarterly  Review,  April,  1863. 
24* 


282  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Then  proudly  he  turned  ere  he  sank  to  the  dell, 
And  shook  from  his  forehead  a  haughty  farewell, 
While  his  horns  in  a  crescent  of  radiance  shone, 

Like  a  flag  burning  bright  when  the  vessel  is  gone. 

-x-  *  *  *  *  *  #  *  * 

— Where  now  is  the  light  of  thy  far-beaming  brow? 
Fleet  son  of  the  wilderness!   where  art  thou  now? 
— Again  o'er  yon  crag  thou  return'st  to  my  sight, 
Like  the  horns  of  the  moon  from  a  cloud  of  the  night! 
Serene  on  thy  travel — as  soul  in  a  dream — 
Thou  needest  no  bridge  o'er  the  rush  of  the  stream. 
With  thy  presence  the  pine-grove  is  filled,  as  with  light, 
And  the  caves,  as  thou  passest,  one  moment  are  bright. 
Through  the  arch  of  the  rainbow  that  lies  on  the  rock 
'Mid  the  rnist  stealing  up  from  the  cataract's  shock, 
Thou  fling'st  thy  bold  beauty,  exulting  and  free, 
O'er  a  pit  of  grini  darkness,  that  roars  like  the  sea. 

His  voyage  is  o'er! — As  if  struck  by  a  spell 
He  motionless  stands  in  the  hush  of  the  dell, 
There  softly  and  slowly  sinks  down  on  his  breast, 
In  the  midst  of  his  pastime  enamored  of  rest. 
A  stream  in  a  clear  pool  that  endeth  its  race — 
A  dancing  ray  chained  to  one  sunshiny  place — 
A  cloud  by  the  winds  to  calm  solitude  driven — 
A  hurricane  dead  in  the  silence  of  heaven ! 
Fit  couch  of  repose  for  a  pilgrim  like  thee! 
Magnificent  prison  inclosing  the  free! 
With  rock-wall  encircled — with  precipice  crowned — 
Which,  awoke  by  the  sun,  thou  canst  clear  at  a  bound. 
'Mid  the  fern  and  the  heather  kind  Nature  doth  keep 
One  bright  spot  of  green  for  her  favorite's  sleep; 
And  close  to  that  covert,  as  clear  as  the  skies 
When  their  blue  depths  are  cloudless,  a  little  lake  lies, 
Where  the  creature  at  rest  can  his  image  behold 
Looking  up  through  the  radiance,  as  bright  and  as  bold! 

How  lonesome!   how  wild!  yet  the  wildness  is  rife 
With  the  stir  of  enjoyment — the  spirit  of  life. 
The  glad  fish  leaps  up  in  the  heart  of  the  lake, 
Whose  depths,  at  the  sullen  plunge,  sullenly  quake ! 
Elate  on  the  fern-branch  the  grasshopper  sings, 
And  away  in  the  midst  of  his  roundelay  springs ; 
'Mid  the  flowers  of  the  heath,  not  more  bright  than  himself, 
The  wild-bee  is  busy,  a  musical  elf. — 
Then  starts  from  his  labor,  unwearied  and  ga^ 
And,  circling  the  antlers,  booms  far,  far  uway. 


WILSON.  283 


While  high  up  the  mountains,  in  silence  remote, 
The  cuckoo,  unseen,  is  repeating  his  note, 
And  mellowing  echo,  on  watch  in  the  skies, 
Like  a  voice  from  some  loftier  climate  replies. 

With  wide-branching  antlers,  a  guard  to  his  breast, 
There  lies  the  wild  Creature,  even  stately  in  rest ! 
'Mid  the  grandeur  of  nature,  composed  and  serene, 
And  proud  in  his  heart  of  the  mountainous  scene, 
He  lifts  his  calm  eye  to  the  eagle  and  raven, 
At  noon  sinking  down  on  smooth  wings  to  their  haven, 
As  if  in  his  soul  the  bold  Animal  smiled 
To  his  friends  of  the  sky,  the  joint  heirs  of  the  wild.  . 


From  the  Recreations  of  Christopher  North  we  excerpt  the 
following  bit  of  arabesque : 

Nightfall,  and  we  are  once  more  at  the  Hut  of  the  Three  Torrents. 
Small  Amy  is  grown  familiar  now,  and,  almost  without  being  asked,  sings 
us  the  choicest  of  her  Gaelic  airs— a  few,  too,  of  Lowland  melody :  all  merry, 
yet  all  sad— if  in  smiles  begun,  ending  in  a  shewer — or  at  least  a  tender 
mist  of  tears.  Heard'st  thou  ever  such  a  syren  as  this  Celtic  child  ?  Did 
we  not  always  tell  you  that  fairies  were  indeed  realities  of  the  twilight  or 
moonlight  world  ?  And  she  is  their  Queen.  Hark !  what  thunder  of 
applause!  The  waterfall  at  the  head  of  the  great  Corrie  thunders  encore 
with  a  hundred  echoes.  But  the  songs  are  over,  and  the  small  singer  gono 
to  her  heather  bed.  There  is  a  Highland  moon ! — The  shield  of  an  unfaller*. 
archangel.  There  are  not  many  stars— but  those  two,  ay,  that  One,  i» 
sufficient  to  sustain  the  glory  of  the  night.  Be  not  alarmed  at  that  low, 
wide,  solemn,  and  melancholy  sound.  Kunlets,  torrents,  rivers,  lochs,  and 
seas — reeds,  heather,  forests,  caves,  and  clifis,  all  are  sound,  sounding 
together  a  choral  anthem. 

Gracious  heavens !  what  mistakes  people  have  fallen  into  when  writing 
about  solitude !  A  man  leaves  a  town  for  a  few  months,  and  goes  with  his 
wife  and  family,  and  a  traveling  library,  into  some  solitary  glen.  Friends 
are  perpetually  visiting  him  from  afar,  or  the  neighboring  gentry  leaving 
their  cards,  while  his  servant-boy  rides  daily  to  the  post-village  for  his 
letters  and  newspapers.  And  call  you  that  solitude?  The  whole  world  is 
with  you,  morning,  noon,  and  night. 

But  go  by  yourself,  without  book  or  friend,  and  live  a  month  in  this  hut 
at  the  head  of  Glenevis.  Go  at  dawn  among  the  cliffs  of  yonder  pine 
forest,  and  wait  there  till  night  hangs  her  moon-lamp  in  heaven.  Com- 
mune with  your  own  soul,  and  be  still.  Let  the  images  of  departed  years 
rise,  phantom-like,  of  their  own  awful  accord  from  the  darkness  of  your 
memory,  and  pass  away  into  the  wood-gloom  or  the  mountain  mist.  Will 
conscience  dread  such  specters  ?  Will  you  quake  before  them,  and  bow  down 
your  head  on  the  mossy  root  of  some  old  oak,  and  sob  in  the  stern  silence 
of  the  haunted  place?  Thoughts,  feelings,  passions,  spectral  deeds,  will 
come  rushing  around  your  lair,  as  with  the  sound  of  the  wings  of  innumer- 
ous  birds— ay,  many  of  them  like  birds  of  prey,  to  gnaw  your  very  heart. 
How  many  duties  undischarged!  How  many  opportunities  neglected! 


284  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


How  many  pleasures  devoured !  How  many  sins  hugged !  How  many 
wickednesses  perpetrated !  The  desert  looks  more  grim,  the  heaven  lowers, 
and  the  sun,  like  God's  own  eye,  stares  in  upon  your  conscience ! 

But  such  is  not  the  solitude  of  our  beautiful  young  shepherd  girl  of  the 
Hut  of  the  Three  Torrents.  Her  soul  is  as  clear,  as  calm  as  the  pool 
pictured  at  times  by  the  floating  clouds  that  let  fall  their  shadows  through 
among  the  overhanging  birch-trees.  What  harm  could  she  ever  do?  What 
harm  could  she  ever  think?  She  may  have  wept — for  there  is  sorrow 
without  sin  ;  may  have  wept  even  at  her  prayers— for  there  is  penitence 
free  from  guilt,  and  innocence  itself  often  kneels  in  contrition.  Down  the 
long  glen  she  accompanies  the  stream  to  the  house  of  God,  sings  her 
psalms,  and  returns  wearied  to  her  heather  bed.  She  is,  indeed,  a  solitary 
child ;  the  eagle,  and  the  raven,  and  the  "red-deer  see  that  she  is  so,  anil 
echo  knows  it  when  from  her  airy  cliff  she  repeats  the  happy  creature's 
song.  Her  world  is  within  this  one  glen.  In  this  one  glen  she  may  live 
all  her  days — be  wooed,  won,  wedded,  buried.  Buried,  said  me?  Oh,  why 
think  of  burial  when  gazing  on  that  resplendent  head?  Interminable 
tracts  of  the  shining  day  await  her,  the  lonely  darling  of  Nature ;  nor  dare 
Time  ever  eclipse  the  lustre  of  those  wild-beaming  eyes !  Her  beauty 
shall  be  immortal,  like  that  of  her  country's  fairies.  So,  Flower  of  the 
Wilderness,  we  wave  towards  thee  a  joyful,  though  an  everlasting,  farewell. 

Our  next  extract  ia  from  Nodes  Ambrosiance  : 

Tickler. — But,  oh !  my  dear  North,  what  grouse-sonp  at  Dalnacardoch  ! 
You  smell  it  on  the  homeward  hill,  as  if  it  were  exhaling  from  the  heather ; 
— deeper  and  deeper  still,  as  you  approach  the  beautiful  chimney  vomiting 
forth  its  intermitting  columns  of  cloud-like  peat  smoke,  that  melts  afar  over 
the  wilderness ! 

North. — Yes,  Tickler,  it  was  Burke  that  vindicated  the  claims  of  smells 
to  the  character  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful. 

Tickler. — Yes,  yes !  Burke  it  was.  As  you  enter  the  inn,  the  divine 
afflatus  penetrates  your  soul.  When  up-stairs,  perhaps  in  the  garret,  adorn- 
ing for  dinner,  it  rises  like  a  cloud  of  rich  distilled  perfumes  through  every 
chink  on  the  floor,  every  cranny  of  the  wall.  The  little  mouse  issues  from 
his  hole,  close  to  the  foot  of  the  bed-post,  and  raising  himself,  squirrel-like, 
on  his  hind  legs,  whets  his  tusks  with  his  merry  paws,  and  smoothes  his 
whiskers. 

North. — Shakesperean ! 

Tickler. — There  we  are,  a  band  of  brothers  round  the  glorious  tureen ! 
Down  goes  the  ladle  into  "a  profundis  clamavi."  and  up  floats  from  that 
blessed  Erebus  a  dozen  cunningly  resuscitated  spirits.  Old  cocks,  bitter 
to  the  back-bone,  lovingly  alternating  with  young  pouts,  whose  swelling 
bosoms  might  seduce  an  anchorite ! 

North  (rising}. — I  must  ring  for  supper.     Ambrose — Ambrose — Ambrose ! 

Tickler. — No  respect  of  persons  at  Dalnacardoch !  I  plump  them  into 
the  plates  around  son.?  selection.  No  matter  although  the  soup  play  splash 
from  preser  to  croupier.  There,  too,  sit  a  few  choice  spirits  of  pointers 
round  the  board — Don— Jupiter—  Sancho — "and  the  rest" — with  steadfast 
eyes  and  dewy  chops,  patient  alike  of  heat,  cold,  thirst,  and  hunger — dogs 
of  the  desert  indeed,  and  nose-led  by  unerring  instinct  right  up  to  the 
cowering  covey  in  the  heather  groves  on  the  mountain-side. 


WILSON.  285 


North. — Is  eagle  good  eating,  Timothy  ?  Pococke,  the  traveler,  used  to 
eat  lion :  lion  pasty  is  excellent,  it  is  said — but  is  not  eagle  tough  ? 

Tickler.— Thigh  good,  devilled.  The  delight  of  the  Highlands  is  in  the 
Highland  feeling.  That  feeling  is  entirely  destroyed  by  stages  and  regular 
progression.  The  waterfalls  do  not  tell  upon  sober  parties — it  is  tedious  in 
the  extreme  to  be  drenched  to  the  skin  along  high-roads — the  rattle  of 
wheels  blends  meanly  with  thunder — and  lightning  is  contemptible  seen 
from  the  window  of  a  glass  coach.  To  enjoy  mist,  you  must  be  in  the  heart 
of  it  as  a  solitary  hunter,  shooter,  or  angler.  Lightning  is  nothing  unless 
a  thousand  feet  below  you,  and  the  live  thunder  must  be  heard  leaping,  as 
Byron  says,  from  mountain  to  mountain,  otherwise  you  might  as  well  listen 
to  a  mock  peal  from  the  pit  of  a  theatre. 

North. — The  Fall  of  Foyers  is  terrible — a  deep  abyss,  savage  rock-works, 
hideous  groans,  ghost-like  vapors,  and  a  rumble  as  if  from  eternity. 

Tickler. — The  Falls  of  the  Clyde  are  majestic.  Over  C'orra  Linn  the  river 
rolls  exultingly ;  and,  recovering  itself  from  that  headlong  plunge,  after 
some  troubled  struggles  among  the  shattered  cliffs,  away  it  floats  in  stately 
pomp,  dallying  with  the  noble  banks,  and  subsiding  into  a  deep,  bright, 
foaming  current.  Then  what  woods  and  groves  crowning  the  noble  rocks ! 
How  cheerful  laughs  the  cottage  pestered  by  the  spray  !  and  how  vivid  the 
verdure  on  each  ivied  ruin !  The  cooing  of  the  cushats  is  a  solemn  accom- 
paniment to  the  cataract,  and  aloft  in  heaven  the  choughs  reply  to  that 
voice  of  the  Forest. 

North. — Yes,  Tickler — what,  after  all,  equals  nature !  Here  in  Ambrose's 
— waiting  for  a  board  of  oysters— the  season  has  recommenced — I  can  sit 
with  my  cigar  in  my  mouth,  and  as  the  whiff  ascends,  fancy  sees  the  spray 
of  Stonebyres,  or  of  the  Falls  of  the  Beauly,  the  radiant  mists  of  the 
Dresne !  I  agree  with  Bowles,  that  nature  is  all  in  all  for  the  purpose  of 
poetry — Art  stark  naught. 

Tickler. — Yet  softly.  Who  planted  those  trees  by  that  river  side? — Art. 
Who  pruned  them? — Art.  Who  gave  room  to  their  giant  arms  to  span 
that  roaring  chasm? — Art.  Who  reared  yon  edifice  on  the  cliff? — Art. 
Who  flung  that  stately  arch  from  rock  to  rock,  under  which  the  martins 
twitter  over  the  unfeared  cataract? — Art.  WTho  darkened  that  long  line 
of  precipice  with  dreadful  or  glorious  associations? — Art,  polity,  law,  war, 
outrage,  and  history,  writing  her  hieroglyphics  with  fire  on  the  scarred 
visage  of  those  natural  battlements.  Is  that  a  hermit's  cell?  Art  scooped 
it  out  of  the  living  stone.  Is  that  an  oratory  ?  Art  smoothed  the  floor  for 
the  knee  of  the  penitent.  Are  the  bones  of  the  holy  slumbering  in  that 
cemetery?  Art  changed  the  hollow  rock  into  a  tomb,  and  when  the  dead 
saint  was  laid  into  the  sepulchre,  Art  joined  its  music  with  the  torrent's 
roar,  and  the  mingled  anthem  rose  to  the  stars  which  Art  had  numbered 
and  sprinkled  into  stations  over  the  firmament  of  Heaven.  WThat  then 
would  Bowles  be  at,  and  why  more  last  words  to  Roscoe  ?  Who  made  his 
ink,  his  pens,  and  his  paper?  — Art.  Who  published  his  books? — Art. 
Who  criticised  them?  — Art.  Who  would  fain  have  damned  them? — The 
Art  of  the  Edinburgh  Review.  And  who  has  been  their  salvation? — The 
Art  of  Blackwopd's  Magazine. 

North. — Go  on,  I  '11  follow  thee.  Is  a  great  military  road  over  a  mountain, 
groaning  with  artillery,  bristling  with  bayonets,  sounding  with  bands  of 
music,  trampling  with  cavalry,  red,  blue,  and  yellow  with  war-dresses, 
streaming  it  may  be  with  blood,  and  overburdened  with  the  standards  of 


286  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


mighty  nations,  less  poetical  than  a  vast  untrodden  Andes,  magnificent  as 
may  be  its  solitudes  beneath  the  moon  or  stare?  Is  a  naked  savage  more 
poetical  than  with  his  plume,  club,  war-mat,  and  tomahawk?  Is  a  log  of 
wood,  be  it  a  whole  uprooted  pine,  drifting  on  the  ocean,  as  poetical  as  a 
hundred-oared  canoe  ?  What  more  sublime  than  the  anchor  by  which  a 
great  ship  hangs  in  safety  within  roar  of  the  whirlpool  ?  Than  the  plum- 
met that  speaks  of  the  rock  foundations  of  the  eternal  sea  ? 

Tickler.— What  is  the  chief  end  of  man  ?— Art.     That  is  a  clencher. 

North. — I  cannot  imagine,  for  the  life  of  me,  what  Ambrose  is  about. 
Hush  !  there  he  comes.  (Enter  Ambrose.}  WThat  is  the  meaning  of  this,  sir? 

Ambrose. — Unfold.     (Folding-doors  thrown  open  and  supper-table  is  shown.} 

Tickler. — What  an  epergne!     Art — art.     (Transeunt  o  nines,} 

"One  of  the  most  characteristic  qualities  of  Wilson's  prose  is  its 
exuberant  diffuseness,  its  glorious  disregard  of  bounds  and  curbs. 
He  could  write,  when  be  chose,  with  perfect  concentration  upon  one 
subject,  and  a  clear  evolution  of  thought  to  a  definite  aim,  as  many 
of  his  articles  in  '  Blackwood's  Magazine  '  distinctly  prove.  But 
it  was  not  the  method  he  did  for  the  most  part  choose.  He  pre- 
ferred to  let  his  overflowing  thoughts  and  fancies  run  on  at  their 
'  own  sweet  will,'  like  one  of  the  wild  mountain-streams  of  his  own 
native  land.  He  delighted  to  mingle  together  the  most  boisterous 
hilarity,  and  the  most  sentimental  musing  ;  to  pass  in  the  course  of 
a  single  paper  from  scholarly  criticism  to  descriptions  of  out-door 
sport;  or  to  ascend  from  humorous  banter  and  nonsense  into  high 
flights  of  poetical  or  philosophic  eloquence.  That  was,  in  fact,  his 
forte,  and  in  that  kind  of  writing  he  may  be  said  to  stand  unap- 
proached  and  alone. 

"  The  defects  of  that  rhapsodical  style,  which  is  illustrated  in  the 
Noctes  and  the  Recreations,  are  as  much  on  the  surface  as  the  merits  : 
and  if  we  test  these  singular  compositions  by  the  rules  of  a  pedantic 
rhetoric,  or  by  that  worst  method  of  criticism  which  can  do  noth- 
ing except  by  comparison  with  fixed  models,  they  must  certainly 
be  pronounced  very  anomalous  and  extravagant.  They  contrast 
astoundingly  with  the  chaste  and  orderly  precision  of  Addison,  or 
the  uniform  richness  and  stately  dignity  of  Macau  lay.  Their  humor 
often  verges  on  coarseness,  their  pathos  on  sentimentality,  and  their 
eloquence  on  bombast.  Yet  with  all  that,  there  is  nothing  like 
them  of  their  own  sort  in  the  English  or  any  other  language. 
Amid  all  their  wilful  extravagancies  they  contain  passages  of  sur- 
passing eloquence  and  beauty ;  they  are  pervaded  throughout  by 
a  vein  of  high  and  pure  moral  feeling;  they  bring  us  into  contact 
at  every  point  with  the  freshness  and  freedom  of  nature ;  and  they 
never  betray  a  thought  that  is  ungenerous,  uncharitable,  or  un- 
believing."* 

*  British  Quarterly  Review,  April,  186?. 


CHARLES  LAMB. 


CHARLES  LAMB  was  born,  February  18,  1775,  in  Crown  Office 
Row,  in  the  Inner  Temple,  London.  His  descent  was  of  the 
humblest ;  but  not  so  humble,  as  to  cause  him  to  omit  a  pleasur- 
able reference  to  it  in  his  Elia  recollections.  In  1782,  through 
the  influence  of  a  friend,  he  received  a  presentation  to  Christ's 
Hospital ;  and  there  his  remarkable  sweetness  of  disposition 
won  him  a  degree  of  favor  among  his  associates,  which  is  not 
often  secured  by  one  of  slight  stature,  delicate  frame,  and  con- 
stitutional nervousness  and  timidity.  Lamb  remained  in  this 
institution  until  his  fifteenth  year,  acquiring  a  fair  knowledge 
of  the  classics,  and  contracting  some  valuable  friendships,  chief 
of  which  was  that  of  Coleridge. 

Immediately  upon  leaving  school,  he  obtained  a  clerkship  in 
the  South  Sea  House ;  from  which,  in  1795,  he  was  transferred 
to  the  India  House.  The  slender  salary  he  here  received  he 
devoted  to  the  maintenance  of  his  parents  and  sister.  And 
when  the  latter,  during  an  attack  of  lunacy,  killed  her  mother, 
Lamb,  who  was  about  to  be  married,  at  once  gave  up  all  in- 
tentions of  matrimony,  and  devoted  his  earnings  and  his  private 
leisure  to  the  welfare  of  his  afflicted  sister. 

He  remained  in  the  employ  of  the  India  House  for  twenty- 
nine  years,  when,  through  the  generosity  of  the  Directors,  he 
was  retired  on  an  annual  pension  of  440£  It  was  during  his 
brief  intervals  of  leisure  throughout  these  long  years  of  clerical 
drudgery,  and  during  the  short  space  that  succeeded  his  release, 
that  Lamb  penned  his  delightful  works, — Essays  of  Elia,  Let- 
ters, Essays,  Poems,  Rosamund  Gray,  Specimens  of  English 
Dramatic  Poets,  John  Woodvil. 

Lamb  died  in  1834,  at  the  age  of  fifty-nine. 

"As  converser  and  stimulator  of  witty  scholarly  converse,  Lamb 
was  unapproachable.  The  anecdotes  recorded  of  him  show  that 

287 


MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

his  coruscations  of  wit  were  not  mere  fire-works,  let  off  abruptly, 
but  falling  stars,  generated  by  the  atmosphere  of  the  night.  Hence 
many  of  the  best  of  his  jokes  read  ruggedly,  torn  away  from  the 
circumstances  which  produced  them.  .  .  .  He  deliberately  preferred 
an  old  folio  to  a  fine  gentleman  ;  the  parlor  of  the  Salutation  tavern 
with  Coleridge  to  any  elegant  trivial  drawing-room;  the  genial  to 
the  genteel.  He  was  pre-eminently  human,  and  detested  all  the 
fopperies  and  elegancies  which  dehumanize  a  man.  The  great 
burthen  of  his  life  we  have  seen;  the  great  felicity  of  his  life  was 
that  among  his  equals,  he  found  friends  so  like  himself,  yet  so  dif- 
ferent, true  lovers  of  literature,  men  who  thought  for  themselves, 
intellect  that  aided  the  development  of  his  own."* 

The  extracts  that  follow  are  from  The  Essays  of  Elm. 

THE   COITVALESCENT. 

If  there  be  a  regal  solitude,  it  is  a  sick  bed.  How  the  patient  lords  it 
there ;  what  caprices  be  acts  without  control !  how  king-like  he  sways  his 
pillow— tumbling,  and  tossing,  and  shifting,  and  lowering,  and  thumping, 
and  flatting;,  and  moulding  it,  to  the  ever-varying  requisitions  of  his  throb- 
bing temples.  He  changes  sides  oftener  than  a  politician.  '  Now  he  lies  full 
length,  then  half-length,  obliquely,  transversely,  head  and  feet  quite  across 
the  bed ;  and  none  accuses  him  of  tergiversation.  Within  the  four  cur- 
tains he  is  absolute.  They  are  his  Mare  Clausum. 

How  sickness  enlarges  the  dimensions  of  a  man's  self  to  himself!  he  is 
his  own  exclusive  object.  Supreme  selfishness  is  inculcated  upon  him  as 
his  only  duty.  'Tis  the  Two  Tables  of  the  Law  to  him.  He  has  nothing 
to  think  of  but  how  to  get  well.  What  passes  out  of  doors,  or  within  them, 
so  he  hear  not  the  jarring  of  them,  affects  him  not.  ...  He  has  put  on  the 
strong  armor  of  sickness,  he  is  wrapped  in  the  callous  hide  of  suffering ; 
he  keeps  his  sympathy,  like  some  curious  vintage,  under  trusty  lock  arid 
key,  for  his  own  use  only.  .  .  .  He  is  forever  plotting  how  to  do  some  good 
to  himself ;  studying  little  stratagems  and  artificial  alleviations. 

He  makes  the  most  of  himself;  dividing  himself,  by  an  allowable  fiction, 
into  as  many  distinct  individuals,  as  he  hath  sore  and  sorrowing  members. 
Sometimes  he  meditates— as  of  a  thing  apart  from  him  — upon  his  poor 
aching  head,  and  that  dull  pain  which,  dozing  or  waking,  lay  in  it  all  the 
past  night  like  a  log,  or  palpable  substance  of  pain,  not  to  be  removed 
without  opening  the  very  skull,  as  it  seemed,  to  take  it  thence.  Or  he 
pities  his  long,  clammy,  attenuated  fingers.  He  compassionates  himself  all 
over ;  and  his  bed  is  a  very  discipline  of  humanity,  and  tender  heart. 

He  cares  for  few  spectators  to  his  tragedy.  Only  that  punctual  face  of 
the  old  nurse  pleases  him,  that  announces  his  broths  and  his  cordials.  He 
likes  it  because  it  is  so  unmoved,  and  because  he  can  pour  forth  his  feverish 
ejaculations  before  it  as  unreservedly  as  to  his  bed-post.  To  the  world's 
business  he  is  dead.  Fie  understands  not  what  the  callings  and  occupations 
of  mortals  are  ;  only  he  has  a  glimmering  conceit  of  some  such  thing,  when 


British  Quarterly  Review,  April,  1807. 


LAMB.  289 


the  doctor  makes  his  daily  call :  and  even  in  the  lines  on  that  busy  face  he 
reads  no  multiplicity  of  patients,  but  solely  conceives  of  himself  as  the 
sick  man.  .  .  . 

To  be  sick  is  to  enjoy  monarchal  prerogatives.  Compare  the  silent  tread, 
and  quiet  ministry,  almost  by  the  eye  only,  with  which  he  is  served — with 
the  careless  demeanor,  the  unceremonious  goings  in  and  out  (slapping  of 
doors,  or  leaving  them  open)  of  the  very  same  attendants,  when  he  is  get- 
ting a  little  better — and  you  will  confess,  that  from  the  bed  of  sickness 
(throne  let  me  rather  call  it)  to  the  elbow-chair  of  convalescence,  is  a  fall 
from  dignity,  amounting  to  a  deposition.  How  convalescence  shrinks  a 
man  back  to  his  pristine  stature  !  Where  is  now  the  space,  which  he  occu- 
pied so  lately,  in  his  own,  in  the  family's  eye  ? 

The  scene  of  his  regalities,  his  sick-room,  which  was  the  presence-cham- 
ber, where  he  lay  and  acted  his  despotic  fancies — how  is  it  reduced  to  a 
common  bed-room  ?  The  trimness  of  the  very  bed  has  something  petty  and 
unmeaning  about  it.  It  is  made  every  day.  How  unlike  to  that  wavy, 
many -furrowed,  oceanic  surface,  which  it  presented  so  short  a  time  since, 
when  to  make  it  was  a  service  not  to  be  thought  of  at  oftener  than  three  or 
four  day  revolutions,  when  the  patient  was  with  pain  and  grief  to  be  lifted 
for  a  little  while  out  of  it,  to  submit  to  the  encroachments  of  unwelcome 
neatness,  ancj.  decencies  which  his  shaken  frame  deprecated ;  then  to  be 
lifted  into  it  again,  for  another  three  or  four  days'  respite,  to  flounder  it  out 
of  shape  again,  while  every  fresh  furrow  was  an  historical  record  of  some 
shifting  posture,  some  uneasy  turning,  some  seeking  for  a  little  ease ;  and 
the  shrunken  skin  scarce  told  a  truer  story  than  the  crumpled  coverlid.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  some  relic  of  the  sick  man's  dream  of  greatness  survives  in  the 
still  lingering  visitations  of  the  medical  attendant.  But  how  is  he,  too, 
changed  with  everything  else !  Can  this  be  he— this  man  of  news— of  chat 
— of  anecdote— of  everything  but  physic— can  this  be  he,  who  so  lately 
came  between  the  patient  and  his  cruel  enemy,  as  on  solemn  embassy  from 
Nature,  erecting  herself  into  a  high  mediating  party  ? — Pshaw  !  't  is  some 
old  woman.  Farewell  with  him  all  that  made  sickness  pompous— the  spell 
that  hushed  the  household —the  desert-like  stillness,  felt  throughout  its 
inmost  chambers— the  mute  attendance— the  inquiry  by  looks— the  still 
softer  delicacies  of  self-attention— the  sole  and  single  eye  of  distemper 
alonely  fixed  upon  itself— world-thoughts  excluded— the  man  a  world  unto 
himself— his  own  theatre  -what  a  speck  is  he  dwindled  into ! 

DREAM  CHILDREN;  A  REVERIE. 

Children  love  to  listen  to  stories  about  their  elders,  when  they  were  chil- 
dren ;  to  stretch  their  imagination  to  the  conception  of  a  traditionary  great- 
uncle,  or  grandame,  whom  they  never  saw.  It  was  in  this  spirit  that  my 
little  ones  crept  about  me  the  other  evening  to  hear  about  their  great-grand- 
mother Field,  who  lived  in  a  great  house  in  Norfolk  (a  hundred  times 
bigger  than  that  in  which  they  and  papa  lived),  which  had  been  the  scene 
—so  at  least  it  was  generally  believed  in  that  part  of  the  country— of  the 
tragic  incidents  which  they  had  lately  become  familiar  with  from  the  ballad 
of  the  Children  of  the  Wood 

Then  I  went  on  to  say,  how  religious  and  how  good  their  great-grand- 
mother Field  was,  how  beloved  and  respected  by  everybody,  though  she 
was  not  indeed  the  mistress  of  this  great  house,  but  had  onl/the  charge  of 
it  committed  to  her  by  the  owner,  who  preferred  living  in  a  newer  and  more 
25  T 


290  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE, 


fashionable  mansion  which  he  had  purchased  somewhere  in  the  adjoining 
county ;  but  still  she  lived  in  it  in  a  manner  as  if  it  had  been  her  own,  and 
kept  up  the  dignity  of  the  great  house  in.  a  sort  while  she  lived,  which  after- 
wards came  to  decay,  and  was  nearly  pulled  down,  and  all  its  old  ornaments 
stripped  and -tarried  away  to  the  owner's  other  house,  where  they  were  set 
up,  and  looked  as  awkward  as  if  some  one  were  to  carry  away  the" old  tombs 
they  had  seen  lately  at  the  Abbey,  and  stick  them  up  in  Lady  C.'s  tawdry 
gilt  drawing-room.  Here  John  smiled,  as  much  as  to  say,  "that  would  be 
foolish  indeed." 

And  then  I  told  how,  when  she  came  to  die,  her  funeral  was  attended  by 
a  concourse  of  all  the  poor,  and  some  of  the  gentry,  too,  of  the  neighbor*- 
hood  for  many  miles  round,  to  show  their  respect  for  her  memory,  lecause 
she  had  been  such  a  good  and  religious  woman;  so  good  indeed  that  she 
knew  all  the  psaltery  by  heart,  ay,  and  a  great  part  of  the  Testament 
besides.  Here  little  Alice  spread " her  hands.  Then  I  told  what  a  tall, 
upright,  graceful  person  their  great-grandmother  Field  once  was;  and  IIOAV 
in  her  youth  she  was  esteemed  the  best  dancer— here  Alice's  little  right 
foot  played  an  involuntary  movement,  till,  upon  my  looking  grave,  it 
desisted — the  best  dancer,  1  was  saying,  in  the  country,  till  a  cruel  disease, 
called  a  cancer,  came,  and  bowed  her  do^  n  with  pain ;  but  it  could  never 
bend  her  good  spirits,  cr  make  them  stoop,  Lut  they  were  still  upright,  because 
she  was  so  good  and  religious.  .  .  . 

Then  I  told  how  good  she  was  to  all  her  grandchildren,  having  us  to  the 
great  hoi.se  in  the  holidays,  where  I  in  particular  used  to  spend  many 
hours  by  myself,  in  gazing  upon  the  old  busts  of  the  twelve  (.'sesars,  that 
had  been  Emperors  of  Rome,  till  the  old  marble  heads  would  seem  to  live 
again,  or  I  to  be  turned  into  marble  with  them  ;  how  I  could  never  be  tired 
with  roaming  about  that  huge  mansion,  with  its  vast  empty  rooms,  with 
their  wornout  hangings,  fluttering  tapestry,  and  carved  oaken  panels,  with 
the  gilding  almost  rubbed  out — sometimes  in  the  spacious  old-fashioned 
gardens,  which  I  had  almost  to  myself,  unless  when  now  and  then  a  soli- 
tary gardening  man  would  cross  me— and  how  the  nectarines  and  peaches 
hung  upon  the  walls,  without  my  ever  offering  to  pluck  them,  because 
they  were  forbidden  fruit,  unless  now  and  then,—  and  because  I  had  more 
pleasure  in  strolling  about  among  the  old  melancholy-looking  yew-trees,  or 
the  firs,  and  picking  up  the  red  berries,  and  the  fir-apples,  which  were 
good  for  nothing  but  to  look  at — or  in  lying  about  upon  the  fresh 'grass 
with  all  the  fine  garden  smells  around  me — or  basking  in  the  orangery,  till 
I  could  almost  fancy  myself  ripening  too  along  with  the  oranges  and  the 
limes  in  that  grateful  warmth — or  in  watching  the  dace  that  darted  to  and 
fro  in  the  fish-pond,  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  with  here  and  there  a 
great  sulky  pike  hanging  midway  down  the  water  in  silent  state,  as  if  it 
mocked  at  their  impertinent  friskings;  1  had  more  pleasure  in  these  busy- 
idle  diversions  than  in  all  the  sweet  flavors  of  peaches,  nectarines,  oranges, 
and  such-like  common  baits  of  children.  .  .  . 

Then,  in  somewhat  a  more  heightened  tone,  I  told  how,  though  their 
great-grandmother  Field  loved  all  her  grandchildren,  yet  in  an  especial 

manner  she  might  be  said  to  love  their  uncle,  John  L ,  because  he  was 

so  handsome  and  spirited  a  youth,  and  a  king  to  the  rest  of  us ;  and,  instead 
of  moping  about  in  solitary  corners,  like  some  of  us,  he  would  mount  the 
most  mettlesome  horse  he  could  get,  when  but  an  imp  no  bigger  than 
themselves,  and  make  it  carry  him  half  over  ihe  country  in  a  morning,  and 
join  the  hunters  when  there  were  any  out ; — and  how  their  uncle  grew  ii[» 
to  man's  estate  a?  brave  as  he  was  handsome ;  and  how  he  used  to  carry 


LAMB.  291 


me  upon  his  back  when  I  was  a  lame-footed  boy  many  a  mile  when  I  could 
not  walk  for  pain ;  and  how  in  after  life  he  became  lame-footed  too,  and  I 
did  not  always  (I  fear)  make  allowances  enough  for  him  when  he  was 
impatient,  and  in  pain ;  and  how  when  he  died,  though  he  had  not  been 
dead  an  hour,  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  died  a  great  while  ago;  and  how 
though  I  did  not  cry  and  take  it  to  heart  as  some  do,  as  I  think  he  would 
have  done  if  I  had  died,  yet  I  missed  him  all  day  long,  and  knew  not  till 
then  how  much  I  had  loved  him.  .  .  . 

Then  I  told  how  for  seven  long  years,  in  hope  sometimes,  sometimes  in 
despair,  yet  persisting  ever,  I  courted  the  fair  Alice  W n;  when  sud- 
denly, turning  to  Alice,  the  soul  of  the  first  Alice  looked  out  at  her  eyes 
with  such  a  reality  of  re-presentment,  that  I  became  in  doubt  which  of 
them  stood  there  before  me,  or-  whose  that  bright  hair  was ;  and  while  I 
stood  gazing,  both  the  children  gradually  grew  fainter  to  my  view,  receding, 
and  still  receding,  till  nothing  at  last  but  two  mournful  features  were  seen 
in  the  uttermost  distance,  which,  without  speech,  strangely  impressed  upon 
me  the  effects  of  speech:  "  We  are  not  of  Alice,  nor  of  thee,  nor  are  we 
children  at  all.  The  children  of  Alice  call  Bartram  father.  We  are 
nothing,  less  than  nothing,  and  dreams.  We  are  only  what  might  have 
been,  and  must  wait  upon  the  tedious  shores  of  Lethe  millions  of  ages 
before  we  have  existence,  and  a  name" — and  immediately  awakening,  I 
found  myself  quietly  seated  in  my  bachelor  arm-chair,  where  I  had  fallen 

asleep,  with  the  faithful  Bridget  unchanged  by  my  side ;  but  John  L 

was  gone  forever. 

"The  prose  essays  under  the~signature  of  Elia,  form  the  most 
delightful  section  amongst  Lamb's  works.  They  traverse  a  pecu- 
liar kind  of  observation,  sequestered  from  general  interest;  and 
they  are  composed  in  a  spirit  too  delicate  and  unobtrusive  to  catch 
the  ear  of  the  noisy  crowd,  clamoring  for  strong  sensations.  But 
this  retired  delicacy  itself,  the  pensiveness  chequered  by  gleams 
of  the  fanciful,  and  the  humor  that  is  touched  with  cross-lights  of 
pathos,  together  with  the  picturesque  quaintness  of  the  objects 
casually  described,  whether  men,  or  things,  or  usages,  and,  in  the 
rear  of  all  this,  the  constant  recurrence  to  ancient  recollections 
and  to  decaying  forms  of  household  life,  as  things  retiring  before 
the  tumult  of  new  and  revolutionary  generations ;  these  traits  in 
combination  communicate  to  the  papers  a  grace  and  strength  of 
originality  which  nothing  in  any  literature  approaches,  whether 
for  degree  or  kind  of  excellence,  except  the  most  felicitous  papers 
of  Addison."* 

"  His  works  will  be  received  as  amongst  the  most  elaborately 
finished  gems  of  literature;  as  cabinet  specimens  which  express 
the  utmost  Delicacy,  purity,  and  tenderness  of  the  national  intel- 
lect, togetherV  with  the  rarest  felicity  of  finish  and  expression, 
although  it  may  he  the  province  of  other  modes  of  .literature  to 
exhibit  the  brightest  models  in  the  grander  and  more  impassioned 
forms  of  intellectual  power."  f 

*  De  Quincey's  Biographical  Essays.         f  De  Quincey's  Literary  R^m  nisce.ices. 


WILLIAM    HAZLITT. 


WILLIAM  HAZLITT  was  born  April  10,  1778,  at  Maidstone,  in 
Kent.  At  nine  years  of  age  he  was  put  to  a  day-school  at  Wem, 
where,  as  he  describes  himself  about  a  year  after,  he  drew  eyes 
and  noses  and  faces ;  read  Ovid's  Metamorphoses  and  Eutropius ; 
taught  a  boy  of  sixteen,  who  had  begun  arithmetic  eight  months 
before  him,  how  to  cipher ;  generally  stood  at  the  head  of  his 
class  in  spelling ;  and  was  one  of  the  best  leapers  in  the  school. 

In  1793  he  was  entered  as  a  student  at  the  Unitarian  College, 
Hackney,  with  a  view  on  his  father's  part  to  prepare  him  for 
the  Dissenting  Ministry.  But  so  decided  became  his  antipathy 
to  this  destiny,  that  at  length  he  was  permitted  to  leave  college 
and  turn  his  attention  to  painting  ;  for  which  art  he  had  always 
exhibited  a  great  fondness  and  no  little  aptitude.  His  success, 
however,  though  marked  in  the  estimation  of  his  friends,  fell 
despicably  below  his  own  exalted  conception  of  what  genuine 
art  demanded.  "  His  final  determination,  therefore,  was  to 
relinquish  all  idea  of  the  art  as  a  profession.  But  this  strong 
effort,  itself  a  proof  of  a  strong  mind,  was  not  made  without 
arousing  him  to  a  sense  of  his  powers  of  expression  in  another 
form — of  his  capacity  to  realize  as  well  as  to  imagine ;  and  he 
resolved  upon  the  simple  process  of  changing  the  implement  of 
art — the  substitution  of  the  pen  for  the  pencil.  It  was  then 
that  he  turned  his  thoughts  to  literature  as  a  means  of  liveli- 
hood. Still  the  use  of  the  pencil  was,  for  many  years  after, 
the  amusement  and  solace  of  his  leisure  hours,  and  at  various 
periods  he  was  induced  to  take  the  portraits  of  friends  to  whom 
he  was  more  closely  attached."  * 

In  pursuance  of  this  new  plan  of  life,  Hazlitt  came  to  London 
in  1803,  where,  two  years  later,  he  published  his  first  work, 
Principles  of  Human  Action — a  work  which  had  employed  his 

*  Biographical  Sketch  by  his  son,  Wm.  Hazlitt,  Jr. 

292 


HAZLITT.  293 


hours  of  literary  effort  for  the  eight  years  preceding  its  appear- 
ance. The  next  eight  years,  spent  chiefly  at  the  delightful 
retreat  of  Winterslow,  number  among  their  products  a  pam- 
phlet entitled  Free  Thoughts  on  Public  Affairs,  an  abridgment 
of  Tucker's  "  Light  of  Nature,"  a  Peply  to  Malthuss  Work  on 
Population,  an  English  Grammar,  The  Eloquence  of  the  British 
Senate,  and  Memoirs  of  Holcroft. 

"  At  the  Russell  Institution  in  1813,  he  delivered  a  series  of 
profound  and  masterly  lectures  upon  the  History  and  Progress 
of  English  Philosophy,  comprehending  a  review  of  the  theories 
and  arguments  of  our  principal  metaphysicians,  with  incidental 
sketches  of  some  of  those  of  France,  and  his  own  opinions  upon 
the  various  features  of  his  subject."  *  It  was  shortly  after  this 
that  he  became  connected  with  the  public  press,  first  as  a  Par- 
liamentary reporter,  and  afterward,  at  intervals,  until  shortly 
before  his  death,  as  a  writer  of  political  and  theatrical  crit- 
icisms. 

In  1817  appeared  two  volumes  of  collected  essays,  under  the 
title  of  the  Pound  Table.  "  Scattered  throughout  these  essays 
is  a  wealth  of  thought  and  poetry,  beside  which  half  the  con- 
temporaries of  their  author  seem  as  paupers.  Hazlitt's  remark- 
able faculty  of  saying  brilliant  things,  in  which  the  wit  only 
ministers  to  the  wisdom,  is  very  conspicuous  in  all.  His  graver 
aphorisms  are  peculiar  in  this : — they  are  for  the  most  part 
philosophical  distinctions."  f 

"  Hazlitt's  success  as  a  lecturer  on  a  former  occasion  induced 
him,  in  the  year  1818,  to  undertake  a  series  of  lectures  on  the 
Comic  Writers,  and  the  Poets  of  England,  and  on  the  Dramatic  Lit- 
erature of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth.  These  he  delivered  at  the  -Surrey 
Institution,  and  they  were  all  subsequently  published  in  single 
volumes  under  their  respective  titles. 

"He  introduces  us  almost  corporally  into  the  divine  presence 
of  the  Great  of  old  time — enables  us  to  hear  the  living  oracles  of 
wisdom  drop  from  their  lips — and  makes  us  partakers,  not  only 
of  those  joys  which  they  diffused,  but  of  those  which  they  felt  in 
the  inmost  recesses  of  their  souls.  His  intense  admiration  of 
intellectual  beauty  seems  always  to  sharpen  his  critical  faculties. 

*  Biographical  Sketch  by  his  son,  Wm.  Hazlitt.  Jr. 
f  Edward  Bulwer  Lytlon. 
25  *  203 


294  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

He  perceives  it,  by  a  kind  of  intuitive  power,  how  deeply  soever  it 
may  be  buried  in  rubbish ;  and  separates  it,  in  a  moment,  from  all 
that  would  encumber  or  deface  it.  In  a  word,  he  at  once  analyzes 
and  describes,  so  that  our  enjoyments  of  loveliness  are  not  chilled, 
but  brightened,  by  our  acquaintance  with  their  inward  sources. 
The  knowledge  communicated  in  his  lectures,  breaks  no  sweet 
enchantment,  nor  chills  one  feeling  of  youthful  joy.  His  criticisms, 
while  they  extend  our  insight  into  the  cause  of  poetical  excellence, 
teach  us,  at  the  same  time,  more  keenly  to  enjoy,  and  more  fondly 
to  revere  it."* 

Hazlitt's  next  published  work  was  the  Characters  of  Shakspeare's 
Plays.  "  It  is,  in  truth,  rather  an  encomium  on  Shakspeare,  than 
a  commentary  or  critique  on  him — and  is  written,  more  to  show 
extraordinary  love  than  extraordinary  knowledge  of  his  produc- 
tions. There  is  nothing  niggardly  in  Hazlitt's  praises,  and  nothing 
affected  in  his  raptures.  He  seems  animated  throughout  with  a 
full  and  hearty  sympathy  with  the  delight  which  his  author  should 
inspire,  and  pours  himself  gladly  out  in  explanation  of  it,  with  a 
fluency  and  ardor,  obviously  much  more  akin  to  enthusiasm  than 
affectation."  f 

The  works  which  marked  the  remaining  years  of  our  author's 
life  were  A  View  of  the  English  Stage  (1818),  Liber  Anioris,  Critical 
Account  of  the  Principal  Picture  Galleries  of  England,  and  Table-Talk, 
published  in  1824;  Spirit  of  the  Age  (1825),  a  series  of  criticisms 
upon  the  more  prominent  literary  men  of  the  time;  Plain  Speaker 
(1826),  which  with  Table-Talk  was  made  up  of  essays  upon  litera- 
ture and  art;  Selections  from  the  British  Poets  (1829) ;  Life  of  Napo- 
leon and  Northcote's  Conversations  (1830).  Many  of  the  essays  com- 
prised in  these  various  works  were  originally  contributed  as  distinct 
articles  to  the  leading  Magazines  and  Eeviews  of  the  day. 

Hazlitt  died  on  the  18th  of  September,  1830. 

Reserving  Hazlitt's  criticisms  upon  authors  for  quotation  when 
those  authors  shall  in  turn  claim  our  attention,  we  present,  as  pos- 
sessing greater  general  interest,  two  essays  from  Table-Talk. 

ON  THE  PLEASURE  OF  PAINTING. 

In  writing,  you  have  to  contend  with  the  world ;  in  painting,  you  have 
only  to  carry  on  a  friendly  strife  with  Nature.  You  sit  down  to  your  task, 
and  are  happy.  From  the  moment  that  you  take  up  the  pencil,  and  look 
Nature  in  the  face,  you  are  at  peace  with  your  own  heart.  No  angry  pas- 
sions rise  to  disturb  the  silent  progress  of  the  work,  to  shake  the  hand,  or 
dim  the  brow :  no  irritable  humors  are  set  afloat :  you  have  no  absurd 
opinions  to  combat,  no  point  to  strain,  no  adversary  to  crush,  no  fool  to 

*  T.  N.  Talfourd.  t  Francis  Jeffrey. 


HAZLITT.  295 


annoy — you  are  actuated  by  fear  or  favor  to  no  man.  There  is  "  no  juggling 
here,"  no  sophistry,  no  intrigue,  no  tampering  with  the  evidence,  no  attempt 
to  make  black  white  or  white  black  ;  but  you  resign  yourself  into  the  hands 
of  a  greater  power,  that  of  Nature,  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child,  and  the 
devotion  of  an  enthusiast — 

"  Study  with  joy  . 
Her  manner,  and  with  rapture  taste  her  style."  .... 

I  have  not  much  pleasure  in  writing  these  Essays,  or  in  reading  them 
afterwards ;  though  I  own  that  I  now  and  then  meet  with  a  phrase  that  I 
like,  or  a  thought  that  strikes  me  as  a  true  one.  I  sometimes  have  to  write 
them  twice  over ;  then  it  is  necessary  to  read  the  proof,  to  prevent  mistakes 
by  the  printer ;  so  that  by  the  time  they  appear  in  a  tangible  shape,  and 
one  can  con  them  over  with  a  conscious,  sidelong  glance  to  the  public  ap- 
probation, they  have  lost  their  gloss  and  relish,  and  become  "  more  tedious 
than  a  twice-told  tale."  .... 

But  I  cannot  say,  from  my  own  experience,  that  the  same  process  takes 
place  in  transferring  our  ideas  to  canvas ;  they  gain  more  than  they  lose  in 
the  mechanical  transformation.  One  is  never  tired  of  painting,  because 
you  have  to  set  down  not  what  you  knew  already,  but  what  you  have  just 
discovered.  In  the  former  case,  you  translate  feelings  into  words;  in  the 
latter,  names  into  things.  There  is  a  continual  creation  out  of  nothing  going 
on.  With  every  stroke  of  the  brush,  a  new  field  of  inquiry  is  laid  open ; 
new  difficulties  arise,  and  new  triumphs  are  prepared  over  them.  By  com- 
paring the  imitation  with  the  original,  you  see  what  you  have  done,  and 
how  much  you  have  still  to  do.  One  part  of  a  picture  shames  another,  and 
you  determine  to  paint  up  to  yourself,  if  you  cannot  come  up  to  Nature. 
Every  object  becomes  lustrous  from  the  light  thrown  back  upon  it  by  the 
mirror  of  art :  and  by  the  aid  of  the  pencil  we  may  be  said  to  touch  and 
handle  the  objects  of  sight. 

The  air-wove  visions  that  hover  on  the  verge  of  existence  have  a  bodily 
presence  given  them  on  the  canvas :  the  form  of  beauty  is  changed  into  a 
substance :  the  drearn  and  glory  of  the  universe  is  made  "  palpable  to  feel- 
ing as  to  sight."  And  see !  a  rainbow  starts  from  the  canvas,  with  all  its 
humid  train  of  glory,  as  if  it  were  drawn  from  its  cloudy  arch  in  heaven. 
The  spangled  landscape  glitters  with  drops  of  dew  after  the  shower.  The 
"fleecy  fools"  show  their  coats  in  the  gleams  of  the  setting  sun.  The  shep- 
herds pipe  their  farewell  notes  in  the  fresh  evening  air.  And  is  this  bright 
vision  made  from  a  dead,  dull  blank,  like  a  bubble  reflecting  the  mighty 
fabric  of  the  universe  ?  We  would  think  this  miracle  of  Rubens' s  pencil 
possible  to  be  performed  ?  Who,  having  seen  it,  would  not  spend  his  life 
to  do  the  like  ? 

See  how  the  rich  fallows,  the  bare  stubble-field,  the  scanty  harvest-home, 
drag  in  Rembrandt's  landscapes !  How  often  have  I  looked  at  them  and 
Nature,  and  tried  to  do  the  same,  till  the  very  "  light  thickened,"  and  there 
was  an  earthiness  in  the  feeling  of  the  air !  There  is  no  end  of  the  refine- 
ments of  art  and  nature  in  this  respect.  One  may  look  at  the  misty  glim- 
mering horizon,  till  the  eye  dazzles,  and  the  imagination  is  lost  in  the  hope 
to  transfer  the  whole  interminable  expanse  at  one  blow  upon  the  canvas.  .  .  . 
One  of  the  most  delightful  parts  of  my  life  was  one  fine  summer,  when  I 
used  to  walk  out  of  an  evening  to  catch  the  last  light  of  the  sun,  gemming 
the  green  slopes  or  russet  lawns,  and  gilding  tower  or  tree,  while  the  blue 
sky  gradually  turned  to  purple  and  gold,  or  skirted  with  dusky  gray,  hung 


296  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


its  broad  marble  pavement  over  all,  as  we  see  it  in  the  great  master  of 

Italian  landscape 

One  of  my  first  attempts  was  a  picture  of  my  father,  who  was  then  in  a 
green  old  age,  with  strong-marked  features,  and  scarred  with  the  small-pox. 
1  drew  it  with  a  broad  light  crossing  the  face,  looking  down,  with  spectacles 
on,  reading.  The  sketch  promised  well ;  and  1  set  to  work  to  finish  it,  de- 
termined to  spare  no  time  nor  pains.  My  father  was  willing  to  sit  as  long 
as  I  pleased ;  for  there  is  a  natural  desire  in  the  mind  of  man  to  sit  for  one's 
picture,  to  be  the  object  of  continued  attention,  to  have  one's  likeness  multi- 
plied ;  and  besides  his  satisfaction  in  the  picture,  he  had  some  pride  in  the 
artist,  though  he  would  rather  I  should  have  written  a  sermon  than  have 
painted  like  Rembrandt  or  like  Raphael ! 

Those  winter  days,  with  the  gleams  of  sunshine  coming  through  the 
chapel  windows,  and  cheered  by  the  notes  of  the  robin  red-breast  in  our 
garden,  as  my  afternoon's  work  drew  to  a  close, — were  among  the  happiest 
of  my  life.  'When  I  gave  the  effect  I  intended  to  any  part  of  the  picture 
for  which  I  had  prepared  my  colors,  when  1  imitated  the  roughness  of  the 
skin  by  a  lucky  stroke  of  the  pencil,  when  1  hit  the  clear  pearly  tone  of  a 
vein,  when  I  gave  the  ruddy  complexion  of  health,  the  blood  circulating 
under  the  broad  shadows  of  one  side  of  the  face,  I  thought  my  fortune 
made ;  or  rather  it  was  already  more  than  made,  in  my  fancying  that  I 
might  one  day  be  able  to  say  with  Correggio,  "  I  also  am  a  painter  /"  It 
was  an  idle  thought,  a  boy's  conceit ;  but  it  did  not  make  me  less  happy 
at  the  time. 

I  used  regularly  to  set  my  work  in  the  chair  to  look  at  it  through  the 
long  evenings ;  and  many  a  time  did  I  return  to  take  leave  of  it,  before  I 
could  go  to  bed  at  night.  I  remember  sending  it  with  a  throbbing  heart 
to  the  Exhibition,  and  seeing  it  hung  up  there  by  the  side  of  one  of  the 
Hon.  Mr.  Skeffington.  There  was  nothing  in  common  between  them,  but 
that  they  were  the  portraits  of  two  very  good-natured  men.  I  think,  but 
am  not  sure,  that  I  finished  this  portrait  (or  another  afterwards)  on  the 
same  day  that  the  news  of  the  battle  of  Austerlitz  came ;  I  walked  out  in 
the  afternoon,  and,  as  I  returned,  saw  the  evening  star  set  over  a  poor 
man's  cottage  with  other  thoughts  and  feelings  than  I  shall  ever  have 
again.  O  for  the  revolution  of  the  great  Platonic  year,  that  those  times 
might  come  over  again !  I  could  sleep  out  the  three  hundred  and  sixty-five 
thousand  intervening  years  very  contentedly ! — The  picture  is  left :  the 
table,  the  chair,  the  window  where  I  learned  to  construe  Livy,  the  chapel 
where  my  father  preached,  remain  where  they  were ;  but  he  himself  is 
gone  to  rest,  full  of  years,  of  faith,  of  hope,  and  charity ! 

ON  THE  FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN  YOUTH. 

No  young  man  believes  he  shall  ever  die.  It  was  a  saying  of  my  broth- 
er's, and  a  tine  one.  There  is  a  feeling  of  Eternity  in  youth  which  makes 
us  amends  for  everything.  To  be  young  is  to  be  as  one  of  the  Immortals. 
One  half  of  time  indeed  is  spent — the  other  half  remains  in  store  for  us 
with  all  its  countless  treasures,  for  there  is  no  line  drawn  and  we  see  no 
limit  to  our  hopes  and  wishes.  Death,  old  age,  are  words  without  a  mean- 
ing, a  dream,  a  fiction,  with  which  we  have  nothing  to  do.  Others  may 
have  undergone,  or  may  still  undergo  them — we  "  bear  a  charmed  life," 
which  laughs  to  scorn  all  such  idle  fancies.  As,  in  setting  out  on  a  delight- 
ful journey,  we  strain  our  eager  sight  forward, 

"  Bidding  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail," 


HAZLITT.  297 


and  see  no  end  to  prospect  after  prospect,  new  objects  presenting  themselves 
as  we  advance,  so  in  the  outset  of  life  we  see  no  end  to  our  desires  nor  to 
the  opportunities  of  gratifying  them.  We  have  as  yet  found  no  obstacle, 
no  disposition  to  flag,  and  it  seems  that  we  can  go  on  so  for  ever.  We  look 
round  in  a  new  world,  full  of  life  and  motion,  and  ceaseless  progress,  and 
feel  in  ourselves  all  the  vigor  and  spirit  to  keep  pace  with  it,  and  do  not 
foresee  from  any  present  signs  how  we  shall  be  left  behind  in  the  race,  de- 
cline into  old  age,  and  drop  into  the  grave. 

It  is  the  simplicity  and,  as  it  were,  abstractedness  of  our  feelings  in  youth 
that  (so  to  speak)  identifies  us  with  our  nature  and  (our  experience  being 
weak  and  our  passions  strong)  makes  us  fancy  ourselves  immortal  like  it. 
Our  short-lived  connection  with  being,  we  fondly  flatter  ourselves,  is  an  in- 
dissoluble and  lasting  union.  As  infants  smile  and  sleep,  we  are  rocked  in 
the  cradle  of  our  desires,  and  hushed  into  fancied  security  by  the  roar  of  the 
universe  around  us— we  quaff  the  cup  of  life  with  eager  thirst  without 
draining  it,  and  joy  and  hope  seem  ever  mantling  to  the  brim — objects 
press  around  us,  filling  the  mind  with  their  magnitude  and  with  the  throng 
of  desires  that  wait  upon  them,  so  that  there  is  no  room  for  the  thoughts 
of  death.  We  are  too  much  dazzled  by  the  gorgeousness  and  novelty  of 
the  bright  waking  dream  about  us  to  discern  the  dim  shadow  lingering  for 
us  in  the  distance.  Nor  would  the  hold  that  life  has  taken  of  us  permit 
us  to  detach  our  thoughts  that  way  even  if  we  could.  We  are  too  much 
absorbed  in  present  objects  and  pursuits. 

While  the  spirit  of  youth  remains  unimpaired,  ere  "  the  wine  of  life  is 
drunk,"  we  are  like  people  intoxicated  or  in  a  fever,  who  are  hurried  away 
by  the  violence  of  their  own  sensations :  it  is  only  as  present  objects  begin 
to  pall  upon  the  sense,  as  we  have  been  disappointed  in  our  favorite  pur- 
suits, cut  off  from  our  closest  ties,  that  we  by  degrees  become  weaned  from 
the  world,  that  passion  loosens  its  hold  upon  futurity,  and  that  we  begin  to 
contemplate  as  in  a  glass  darkl$  the  possibility  of  parting  with  it  for  good. 
Till  then  the  example  of  others  has  no  effect  upon  us.  Casualties  we 
avoid ;  the  slow  approaches  of  age  we  play  at  hide-and-seek  with.  Like  the 
foolish  fat  scullion  in  Sterne,  who  hears  that  Master  Bobby  is  dead,  our 
only  reflection  is,  "  So  am  not  I !"  The  idea  of  death,  instead  of  staggering 
our  confidence,  only  seems  to  strengthen  and  enhance  our  sense  of  the  pos- 
session and  our  enjoyment  of  life.  Others  may  fall  around  us  like  leaves 
or  be  mowed  down  by  the  scythe  of  Time  like  grass :  these  are  but  meta- 
phors to  the  unreflecting,  buoyant  ears  and  overweening  presumption  of 
youth.  It  is  not  till  we  see  the  flowers  of  Love,  Hope,  and  Joy  withering 
around  us,  that  we  give  up  the  flattering  delusions  that  before  led  us  on, 
and  that  the  emptiness  and  dreariness  of  the  prospect  before  us  reconciles 
us  hypothetically  to  the  silence  of  the  grave. 

Life  is  indeed  a  strange  gift,  and  its  privileges  are  most  mysterious. 
Our  first  and  strongest  impressions  are  borrowed  from  the  mighty  scene 
that  is  opened  to  us,  and  we  unconsciously  transfer  its  durability  as  well  as 
its  splendor  to  ourselves.  Like  a  rustic  at  a  fair,  we  are  full  of  amazement 
and  rapture,  and  have  no  thought  of  going  home,  or  that  it  will  soon  be 
night.  We  know  our  existence  only  by  ourselves,  and  confound  our  knowl- 
edge with  the  objects  of  it.  We  and  Nature  are  therefore  one.  We  do  not 
go  from  a  play  till  the  last  act  is  ended,  and  the  lights  are  about  to  be 
extinguished.  But  the  fairy  face  of  Nature  still  shines  on :  shall  we  be 
called  away  before  the  curtain  falls,  or  ere  we  have  scarce  had  a  glimpse 
of  what  is  going  on?  Like  children,  our  step-mother,  Nature,  holds  us  up 


298  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

to  see  the  raree-show  of  the  universe,  and  then,  as  if  we  were  a  burden  tc 
her  to  support,  lets  us  fall  down  again.  Yet  what  brave  sublunary  things 
does  not  this  pageant  present,  like  a  ball  or  fete  of  the  universe! 

To  see  the  golden  sun,  the  azure  sky,  the  outstretched  ocean ;  to  walk 
upon  the  green  earth,  and  to  be  lord  of  a  thousand  creatures ;  to  look  down 
yawning  precipices  or  over  distant  sunny  vales ;  to  see  the  world  spread 
out  under  one's  feet  on  a  map ;  to  bring  the  stars  near,  to  view  the  smallest 
insect  through  a  microscope ;  to  read  history,  and  consider  the  revolutions 
of  empire  and  the  successions  of  generations ;  to  hear  of  the  glory  of  Tyre, 
of  Sidon,  of  Babylon,  and  of  Susa,  and  to  say  all  these  were  before  me  and 
are  now  nothing ;  to  say  I  exist  in  such  a  point  of  time,  and  in  such  a  point 
of  space ;  to  be  a  spectator  and  a  part  of  its  every  moving  scene ;  to  witness 
the  change  of  season,  of  spring  and  autumn,  of  winter  and  summer ;  to  feel 
hot  and  cold,  pleasure  and  pain,  beauty  and  deformity,  right  and  wrong; 
to  be  sensible  to  the  accidents  of  nature ;  to  consider  the  mighty  world  of 
eye  and  ear ;  to  listen  to  the  stock-dove's  notes  amid  the  forest  deep ;  to 
journey  over  moor  and  mountain ;  to  hear  the  midnight-sainted  choir ;  to 
visit  lighted  halls,  or  the  cathedral's  gloom,  or  sit  in  crowded  theatres  and 
see  life  itself  mocked ;  to  study  the  works  of  art,  and  refine  the  sense  of 
beauty  to  agony ;  to  worship  fame,  and  to  dream  of  immortality ;  to  look 
upon  the  Vatican,  and  to  read  Shakspeare ;  to  gather  up  the  wisdom  of  the 
ancients,  and  to  pry  into  the  future ;  to  listen  to  the  trump  of  war,  the 
shout  of  victory ;  to  question  history  as  to  the  movements  of  the  human 
heart ;  to  seek  for  truth ;  to  plead  the  cause  of  humanity  ;  to  overlook  the 
world  as  if  Time  and  Nature  poured  their  treasures  at  our  feet, — to  be  and 
to  do  all  this,  and  then  in  a  moment  to  be  nothing, — to  have  it  all  snatched 
from  us  as  by  a  juggler's  trick,  or  a  phantasmagoria !  There  is  something  in 
this  transition  from  all  to  nothing  that  shocks  us  and  damps  the  enthusiasm 
of  youth  new  flushed  with  hope  and  pleasure,  and  we  cast  the  comfortless 
thought  as  far  from  us  as  we  can. 

"As  an  author,  Hazlitt  maybe  contemplated  principally  in  three 
aspects, — as  a  mcral  and  political  reasoner ;  as  an  observer  of  char- 
acter and  manners  ;  and  as  a  critic  in  literature  and  painting.  His 
metaphysical  and  political  essays  contain  rich  treasures,  sought 
with  years  of  patient  toil,  and  poured  forth  with  careless  prod- 
igality,— materials  for  thinking,  a  small  part  of  which  wisely  em- 
ployed will  enrich  him  who  makes  them  his  own, — but  the  choice 
is  not  wholly  unattended  with  perplexity  and  danger.  He  had, 
indeed,  as  passionate  a  desire  for  truth  as  others  have  for  wealth, 
or  power,  or  fame.  The  purpose  of  his  research  was  always  steady 
and  pure ;  and  no  temptation  from  without  could  induce  him  to 
pervert  or  to  conceal  the  faith  that  was  in  him.  But,  besides  that 
love  of  truth,  that  sincerity  in  pursuing  it,  and  that  boldness  in 
telling  it,  he  had  earnest  aspirations  after  the  beautiful,  a  strong 
sense  of  pleasure,  an  intense  consciousness  of  his  own  individual 
being,  which  broke  the  current  of  abstract  speculation  into  dazzling 
eddies,  and  sometimes  turned  it  astray.  One  of  the  most  remark- 
ab.e  effects  of  the  strong  sense  of  the  personal  on  Hazlitt's  abstract 


HAZL1TT.  299 

speculation,  is  a  habit  of  confounding  his  own  feelings  and  expe- 
riences in  relation  to  a  subject  with  proofs  of  some  theory  which 
had  grown  out  of  them,  or  had  become  associated  with  them. 

"The  same  causes  diminished  the  immediate  effect  of  Hazlitt's 
political  writings.  It  was  the  fashion  to  denounce  him  as  a  sour 
Jacobin  ;  but  no  description  could  be  more  unjust.  Under  the  in- 
fluence of  some  bitter  feeling,  he  occasionally  poured  out  a  furious 
invective  against  those  whom  he  regarded  as  the  enemies  of  liberty 
or  the  apostates  from  its  cause;  but,  in  general,  his  force  was 
diverted  (unconsciously  to  himself)  by  figures  and  fantasies,  by  fine 
and  quaint  allusions,  by  quotations  from  his  favorite  authors,  intro- 
duced with  singular  felicity  as  respects  the  direct  link  of  association, 
but  tending  by  their  very  beauty  to  unnerve  the  mind  of  the  reader, 
and  substitute  the  sense  of  luxury  for  that  of  hatred  or  anger.  In 
some  of  his  essays,  when  the  reasoning  is  most  cogent,  every  other 
sentence  contains  some  exquisite  passage  from  Shakspeare,  or 
Fletcher,  or  Wordsworth,  trailing  after  it  a  line  of  golden  associa- 
tions—or some  reference  to  a  novel  over  which  we  have  a  thousand 
times  forgotten  the  wrongs  of  mankind  ;  till  in  the  recurring  shock 
of  pleasurable  surprise,  the  main  argument  escapes  us. 

"If  the  experiences  and  the  sympathies  which  acted  so  power- 
fully on  the  mind  of  Hazlitt  detract  somewhat  from  his  authority 
as  a  reasoner,  they  give  an  unprecedented  interest  and  value  to  his 
essays  on  character  and  books.  The  excellence  of  these  works 
differs  not  so  much  in  degree  as  in  kind  from  that  of  all  others  of 
their  class.  There  is  a  weight  and  substance  about  them,  which 
makes  us  feel  that  amidst  all  their  nice  and  dexterous  analysis, 
they  are  in  no  small  measure  creations.  The  quantity  of  thought 
which  is  accumulated  upon  his  favorite  subjects;  the  variety  and 
richness  of  the  illustrations ;  and  the  strong  sense  of  beauty  and 
pleasure  which  pervades  and  animates  the  composition,  give  them 
a  place,  if  not  above,  yet  apart  from  the  writings  of  all  other 
essayists.  The  intense  interest  which  he  takes  ir.  his  theme,  and 
which  prompts  him  to  adorn  it  lavishly  with  the  spoils  of  many  an 
intellectual  struggle,  commends  it  to  the  feelings  as  well  as  to  the 
understanding,  and  makes  the  thread  of  his  argument  seem  to  us 
like  a  fibre  of  our  own  moral  being.""31 

*  Thoughts  upon  Hazlitt,  by  T.  N.  Talfourd. 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE. 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE  was  born  at  Totness,  in  Devonshire, 
April  23,  1818.  He  was  educated  at  Oxford,  and  subsequently 
was  made  a  Fellow  of  Exeter  College.  His  first  volume — The 
Shadows  of  the  Clouds,  a  novel,  was  published  in  1847.  Two 
years  later  appeared  his  second  volume — The  Nemesis  of  Faith 
— a  work  of  a  widely  different  character  from  the  first.  This 
was  followed,  in  1854,  by  The  Book  of  Job — "  One  of  the  finest 
idyllic  critiques  in  our  language ;  free  in  its  treatment,  but  full 
of  fine  religious  sympathies." 

Froude's  real  importance  as  a  writer,  however, — and  certainly 
his  reputation  as  such, — was  not  assured  until  1856,  at  which 
date  he  began  the  publication  of  his  History  of  England  from 
the  Fall  of  Wolsey  to  the  Defeat  of  the  Spanish  Armada.  The 
work  extends  through  twelve  volumes,  and  was  not  completed 
until  1870.  As  a  specimen  of  our  author's  power  in  the  direc- 
tion of  graphic  description,  we  cite,  in  part, 

THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  THE   SPANISH  ARMADA. 

The  Spanish  fleet  was  anchored  close  on  the  edge  of  the  shoal  water,  and 
to  attack  it  where  it  lay  was  impossible.  It  was  determined  to  drive  them 
out  into  the  channel  with  fire-ships,  of  which  they  were  known  to  be  afraid. 
Among  the  volunteer  vessels  which  had  attached  themselves  to  the  fleet, 
there  were  many  that  would  be  useless  in  action,  and  as  fit  as  the  best  for 
the  service  for  which  they  were  now  needed.  Eight  were  taken,  the 
rigging  smeared  rapidly  with  pitch,  the  hulls  filled  with  any  useless  mate- 
rial which  could  be  extemporized  that  would  contribute  to  the  blaze.  The 
sky  was  cloudy.  The  moon  was  late  in  its  last  quarter,  and  did  not  rise 
till  morning ;  and  the  tide,  towards  midnight,  set  directly  down  from  the 
English  position  to  where  the  ships  of  the  Armada,  seeking  shelter  from 
the  bend  of  the  coast,  lay  huddled  dangerously  close.  Long,  low,  sighing 
gusts  from  the  westward  promised  the  rising  of  a  gale.  The  crews  of  the 
condemned  vessels  undertook  to  pilot  them  to  their  destination,  and  then 
belay  the  sheets,  lash  the  helm,  fire,  and  leave  them. 

Thus,  when  the  Spanish  bells  were  about  striking  twelve,  and,  save  the 
watch  on  deck,  soldier  and  seaman  lay  stretched  in  sleep,  certain  dark 
objects  which  had  been  seen  dimly  drifting  on  the  tide  near  where  the 
galleons  lay  thickest,  shot  suddenly  into  pyramids  of  light,  flames  leaping 

oOU 


FROUDE.  301 


from  ruddy  sail  to  sail,  flickering  on  the  ropes  and  forecastles,  foremasts 
and  bowsprits  a  lurid  blaze  of  conflagration.  A  cool  commander  might 
have  ordered  out  his  boats  and  towed  the  fireships  clear;  but  Medina 
Sidonia,  with  a  strain  already  upon  him  beyond  the  strength  of  his  capac- 
ity, saw  coming  upon  him  some  terrible  engines  of  destruction,  like  the 
floating  mine  which  had  shattered  Parma's  bridge  at  Antwerp. 

Panic  spread  through  the  entire  Armada ;  the  enemy  they  most  dreaded 
was  upon  them.  The  galleons  were  each  riding  with  two  anchors;  for 
their  misfortune  few  of  them  were  provided  with  a  third.  A  shot  was  fired 
from  the  San  Martin  as  a  signal  to  cut  or  slip  their  cables  and  make  to  sea. 
Amidst  cries  and  confusion,  and  lighted  to  their  work  by  the  blaze,  they 
set  sail  and  cleared  away,  congratulating  themselves,  when  they  had  reached 
the  open  water  and  found  that  all  or  most  of  them  were  safe,  on  the  skill 
with  which  they  had  defeated  the  machinations  of  the  enemy.  They  lay 
to  six  miles  from  shore,  intending  to  return  with  the  daylight,  recover 
their  anchors,  and  resume  their  old  position.  .  .  . 

Drake,  whose  larger  mind  comprehended  the  position  in  its  broader 
bearings,  was  determined  not  only  that  he  (the  Spanish  commander)  should 
never  see  his  anchors  again,  but  that  he  should  be  driven  north  through 
the  Narrow  Seas.  The  wind  was  still  rising  and  threatened  a  storm.  He 
had  seen  enough  of  the  sailing  powers  of  the  gallegns  to  be  assured  that 
until  it  shifted  they  could  make  no  way  against  it ;  and  once  in  the  North 
Sea  they  would  be  in  unknown  waters,  without  a  harbor  into  which  they 
could  venture  to  run,  and  at  all  events  for  a  time  cut  off'  from  their  commu- 
nication with  Dunkirk.  They  had  drifted  in  the  night  further  than  they 
intended,  and  when  the  sun  rose  they  were  scattered  over  a  large  surface 
oft*  Gravelines. 

Signals  were  sent  up  for  them  to  collect  and  make  back  for  Calais ;  but 
Drake,  with  his  own  squadron,  and  Henry  Seymour,  with  the  squadron  of 
the  Straits,  having  the  advantage  of  wind,  speed,  and  skill,  came  on  them 
while  they  were  still  dispersed.  Seymour  opened  the  action  at  eight  in 
the  morning  with  a  cluster  of  galleons  on  the  Spaniards'  extreme  right. 
.Reserving  their  fires  till  within  a  hundred  and  twenty  yards,  and  wasting 
no  cartridges  at  any  longer  distance,  the  English  ships  continued  through 
the  entire  forenoon  to  pour  into  them  one  continuous  rain  of  shot.  They 
were  driven  in  upon  their  own  center,  where  they  became  entangled  in  a 
confused  and  helpless  mass,  a  mere  target  to  the  English  guns,  Sir  William 
Winter  alone  delivering  five  hundred  shot  into  them,  "  never  out  of 
harquebuz  range,  and  often  within  speaking  Distance." 

Drake  himself,  meanwhile,  had  fallen  on  Medina  Sidonia  and  Oquendo, 
who,  with  a  score  of  galleons  better  handled  than  the  rest,  were  endeavor- 
ing to  keep  sea  room,  and  retain  some  command  of  themselves.  But  their 
wretched  sailing  powers  put  them  at  a  disadvantage  for  which  skill  and 
courage  could  not  compensate.  The  English  were  always  to  windward  of 
them,  and  hemmed  in  at  every  turn,  they  too  were  forced  back  upon  their 
consorts,  hunted  together  as  a  shepherd  hunts  sheep  upon  a  common,  and 
the  whole  mass  of  them  forced  slowly  towards  the  shoals  and  banks  on  the 
Flanders  coast. 

Howard  came  up  at  noon  to  join  in  the  work  of  destruction.  The 
English  accounts  tell  a  simple  story.  The  Spaniards'  gun  practice,  which 
had  been  always  bad,  was  helpless  beyond  past  experience.  Their  want 
of  ammunition  was  not  suspected,  for  they  continued  to  fire  throughout  the 
day  after  their  slow,  awkward  fashion ;  but  their  guns,  worked  on  rolling 
26 


302  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

platforms  by  soldiers  unused  to  the  sea,  sent  their  shot  into  the  air  or  into 
the  water;  while  the  English,  themselves  almost  untouched,  fired  into 
them  without  intermission  from  eight  in  the  morning  till  sunset,  "  when 
almost  the  last  cartridge  was  spent,  and  every  man  was  weary  with  labor." 
They  took  no  prizes,  and  attempted  to  take  none.  Their  orders  were  to 
sink  or  destroy.  They  saw  three  large  galleons  go  down.  Three  others, 
as  the  wind  fell  westerly,  they  saw  reeling  helplessly  towards  Ostend,  and 
the  fate  of  these  they  heard  of  afterwards  ;  but  of  the  general  effect  of  the 
fire,  neither  at  the  time  nor  afterwards  did  they  know  anything  beyond  its 
practical  and  broad  results. 

Our  second  extract  will  exhibit  Froude's  felicity  as  a  delineator 
of  character. 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  QUEEN  ELIZABETH. 

In  fighting  out  her  long  quarrel  with  Spain,  and  building  her  Church 
system  out  of  the  broken  masonry  of  Popery,  her  concluding  years  passed 
away.  The  great  men  who  had  upheld  the  throne  in  the  days  of  her  peril 
dropped  one  by  one  into  the  grave.  Walsingham  died  soon  after  the  defeat 
of  the  Armada,  ruined  in  fortune,  and  weary  of  his  ungrateful  service. 
Hunsdon,  Knollys,  Burghley,  Drake,  followed  at  brief  intervals,  and  their 
mistress  was  left  by  herself,  standing,  as  it  seemed,  on  the  pinnacle  of  earthly 
glory,  yet  in  all  the  loneliness  of  greatness,  and  unable  to  enjoy  the  honors 
which  Burghley's  policy  had  won  for,  her.  The  first  place  among  the  Pro- 
testant Powers,  which  had  been  so  often  offered  her,  and  so  often  refused, 
had  been  forced  upon  her  in  spite  of  herself.  "  She  was  Head  of  the  Name," 
but  it  gave  her  no  pleasure. 

She  was  the  last  of  her  race.  No  Tudor  would  sit  again  on  the  English 
throne.  Her  own  sad  prophecy  was  fulfilled,  and  she  lived  to  see  those 
whom  she  most  trusted  turning  their  eyes  to  the  rising  sun.  Old  age  was 
coming  upon  her,  bringing  with  it  perhaps  a  consciousness  of  failing  facul- 
ties ;  and  solitary  in  the  midst  of  splendor,  and  friendless  among  the  circle 
of  adorers  who  swore  they  lived  but  in  her  presence,  she  grew  weary  of  a 
life  which  had  ceased  to 'interest  her.  Sickening  of  a  vague  disease  she 
sought  no  help  from  medicine,  and  finally  refused  to  take  food.  She  could 
not  rest  in  her  bed,  but  sate  silent  on  cushions,  staring  into  vacancy  with 
fixed  and  stony  eyes,  and  so  at  last  she  died 

Circumstances  more  than  clloice  threw  her  originally  on  the  side  of  the 
Keformation,  and  when  she  -told  the  Spanish  Ambassadors  that  she  had 
been  forced  into  the  separation  from  the  Papacy  against  her  will,  she  prob- 
ably spoke  but  the  truth.  She  was  identified  in  her  birth  with  the  cause 
of  independence.  The  first  battle  had  been  fought  over  her  cradle,  and 
her  right  to  be  on  the  throne  turned  morally,  if  not  in  law,  on  the  legiti- 
macy ef  Queen  Catherine's  divorce.  Her  sister  had  persecuted  her  as  the 
child  of  the  woman  who  had  caused  her  mother  so  much  misery,  and  her 
friends,  therefore,  had  naturally  been  those  who  were  most  her  sister's  ene- 
mies. She  could  not  have  submitted  to  the  Pope  without  condemning  her 
father,  or  admitting  a  taint  upon  her  own  birth,  while  in  Mary  of  Scotland 
she  had  a  rival  ready  to  take  advantage  of  any  concession  which  she  might 
be  tempted  to  make. 

For  these  reasons,  and  not  from  any  sympathy  with  the  views,  either  of 
Luther  or  Calvin,  she  chose  her  party  at  her  accession.  She  found  herself 
compelled  against  her  will  to  become  the  patron  of  heretics  and  rebels  in 


FROUDE.  303 


whose  objects  she  had  no  interest,  and  in  whose  theology  she  had  no  belief. 
She  resented  the  necessity  while  she  submitted  to  it,  and  her  vacillations 
are  explained  by  the  reluctance  with  which  each  successive  step  was  forced 
upon  her,  on  a  road  which  she  detested.  It  would  have  been  easy  for  a 
Protestant  to  be  decided.  It  would  have  been  easy  for  a  Catholic  to  be 
decided.  To  Elizabeth  the  speculations  of  so-called  divines  were  but  as 
ropes  of  sand  and  sea-slime  leading  to  the  moon,  and  the  doctrines  for 
which  they  were  rending  each  other  to  pieces  a  dream  of  fools  or  enthusiasts. 
Unfortunately  her  keenness  of  insight  was  not  combined  with  any  proiound 
concern  for  serious  things.  She  saw  through  the  emptiness  of  the  forms  in 
which  religion  presented  itself  to  the  world.  She  had  none  the  more  any 
larger  or  deeper  conviction  of  her  own.  She  was  without  the  intellectual 
emotions  which  give  human  character  its  consistency  and  power. 

One  moral  quality  she  possessed  in  an  eminent  degree :  she  was  supremely 
brave.  For  thirty  years  she  was  perpetually  a  mark  for  assassination,  and 
her  spirits  were  never  affected,  and  she  was  never  frightened  into  cruelty. 
She  had  a  proper  contempt  also  for  idle  luxury  and  indulgence.  She  lived 
simply,  worked  hard,  and  ruled  her  household  with  rigid  economy.  But 
her  vanity  was  as  insatiable  as  it  was  commonplace.  No  flattery  was  too 
tawdry  to  find  a  welcome  with  her,  and  as  she  had  no  repugnance  to  false 
words  in  others,  she  was  equally  liberal  of  them  herself.  Her  entire  nature 
was  saturated  with  artifice.  Except  when  speaking  some  round  untruth 
Elizabeth  never  could  be  simple.  Her  letters  and  her  speeches  were  as 
fantastic  as  her  dress,  and  her  meaning  as  involved  as  her  policy.  She  was 
unnatural  even  in  her  prayers,  and  she  carried  her  affectations  into  the 
presence  of  the  Almighty.  Obligations  of  honor  were  not  only  occasionally 
forgotten  by  her,  but  she  did  not  seem  to  understand  what  honor  meant. 

"The  justice  of  some  of  Froude's  verdicts  has  been  reasonably 
disputed.  His  misplaced  reliance  on  statutory  evidence;  his  too- 
ready  faith  in  the  heroism  and  integrity  of  men  swayed  by  passion 
and  self-interest,  or  dumbfoundered  under  the  menace  of  a  royal 
reign  of  terror ;  and  his  naive  acceptance  of  preposterous  excuses 
for  the  excesses  of  despotic  wilfulness,  are  generally  known  and 
allowed.  Equally  conspicuous  are  the  patient  research,  the  fresh- 
ness, vigor,  and  eloquence  of  the  copious  narrative  of  the  Tudor 
princes,  to  the  composition  of  which  he  has  dedicated  twenty  of 
the  best  years  of  his  life."  * 

"  Speaking  generally,  Froude  is  rather  a  pictorial  than  a  philo- 
sophic historian  ;  and  he  is  less  felicitous  in  making  out  the  broader 
bearings  of  the  course  of  events  than  in  tracing  them  separately 
and  in  reproducing  them.  He  is  more  apt  in  seizing  the  form  of 
an  age,  than  its  general  spirit  and  remote  tendencies;  and  he 
rather  gives  us  a  striking  narrative  than  places  us  in  a  point  of 
view  from  which  we  can  see  the  march  of  events  in  their  relations 
with  the  past  and  the  future.  His  reflective  power,  in  short,  is  infe- 
rior to  his  creative  and  dramatic  ability ;  and  we  see  the  results, 
not  only  in  his  method  of  minute  but  generally  graphic  description, 
and  in  his  love  for  historical  scenes,  but  in  his  abstinence  from 

*  Westminster  Review,  October,  1870. 


304  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

generalizing  from  facts,  from  drawing  any  large  and  deep  conclu- 
sions, from  endeavoring  to  compass  in  a  few  sentences  clear  deduc- 
tions from  any  series  of  phenomena. 

"  Fronde  belongs  to  the  school  of  Carlyle,  but  he  is  not  an  imita- 
tor of  that  great  writer;  he  equals  him  in  industry  and  profound 
study,  and  if  inferior  in  dramatic  force,  he  is  calmer  and  more 
natural  in  his  tone,  more  thoughtful  in  his  remarks  on  events, 
more  unaffected  in  his  narrative,  and  more  simple  and  life  like  in 
his  portraits. 

"As  regards  the  composition  of  these  volumes,  great  as  is  the 
beauty  of  some  passages,  and  noble  as  is  the  style,  on  the  whole, 
the  narrative  is  occasionally  cumbrous ;  and  perhaps  for  a  general 
reader  too  many  original  documents  have  been  cited."* 

In  1867,  appeared  a  first  series  of  essays,  that  had  been  contrib- 
uted by  our  author  during  the  previous  seventeen  years  to  the 
Westminster  Review  and  Eraser's  Magazine  mainly,  entitled  Short 
Studies  of  (*reat  Subjects;  a  second  series  following  in  1871  and 
others  still  since  then.  Speaking  of  these  essays,  a  prominent 
review  *  remarks :  "We  often  dissent  from  his  opinion;  we  often 
feel  that  his  imagination  throws  an  illusive  glamour  over  the  facts 
of  history ;  he  is  prone  to  laborious  demonstrations  of  historical 
paradox;  but  he  is  a  scholarly,  conscientious,  and  able  writer — 
almost  a  great  one/' 

The  honorable  office  of  Rector  of  the  University  of  St.  Andrew's 
was  conferred  on  Fronde  in  March,  1869.  His  next  work,  the  first 
volume  of  which  was  issued  in  1872,  was  entitled  The  English  in 
Ireland.  "There  can  be  no  doubt  that  this  is  a  book' which  will 
give  great  offence  and  arouse  the  bitterest  indignation.  We  cannot 
conceal  from  ourselves  that  its  tone  is  often  extravagantly,  almost 
savagely  severe,  and  that  Irish  faults  and  crimes  are  hunted  down 
with  a  ferocity  which  has  something  of  the  bloodhound  in  the 
relentless  pertinacity  of  its  pursuit.  Sometimes  it  more  resembles 
the  speech  of  an  accusing  counsel,  or  the  pamphlet  of  a  politi- 
cal partisan,  than  a  dispassionate  narrative  of  past  events;  and  in 
certain  passages  is  rather  an  indictment  than  a  history.  But  both 
the  partisanship  and  the  savageness  are  obviously  not  attributable 
to  any  unfairness  of  mind,  nor  even  to  any  real  injustice  of  esti- 
mate, but  to  a  temperament  to  which  some  particular  follies  and 
vices  are  so  especially  repugnant  that  they  inevitably  come  in  for 
a  disproportionate,  though  not  an  undue,  share  of  blame. "f 

His  history  of  Julius  Csesar,  published  in  1879,  completes  the  list 
of  his  works  up  to  the  present  date. 

*  British  Quarterly  Review,  January,  1867. 
f  London  Quarterly  Review,  January,  1873. 


THOMAS   CARLYLE. 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  was  born  December  4,  1795,  near  Eccle- 
fechan,  in  Dumfriesshire,  Scotland.  About  1810  he  was  sent 
to  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  where,  during  a  stay  of  some 
seven  years,  he  acquired  no  little  reputation  for  proficiency  in 
mathematics,  and  for  an  enthusiastic  acquaintance  with  the 
German  language  and  literature.  .In  1824  he  virtually  in- 
augurated his  celebrated  career  as  an  essayist  and  critic  by  con- 
tributing a  series  of  brilliant  biographical  articles  to  the  "  Edin- 
burgh Encyclopaedia,"  and  to  the  "New  Edinburgh  Review." 
These  half  dozen  or  so  essays  did  not,  however,  prevent  him 
attesting  the  strength  of  his  early  preferences;  for  during  the 
same  year  he  completed  translations  of  Legendres  Geometry,  and 
of  Goethe  s  Wilhelm  Meister,  and  also  published  in  numbers  in 
the  "  London  Magazine"  a  Life  of  Schiller. 

The  next  year  Carlyle  settled  at  Craigenputtoch,  a  rural  quie- 
tude in  his  native  county,  "six  miles  removed  from  every  one 
who  in  any  case  might  visit  him,"  whence  he  issued  critical  arid 
biographical  essays  to  the  "  Edinburgh  Review,"  the  "  Foreign 
Quarterly  Review,"  and  "Eraser's  Magazine;"  the  most  char- 
acteristic of  which  were  in  1834  collected  into  book  form  under 
the  quaint  title  of  Sartor  Resartus.  At  the  last  named  date  he 
removed  to  London,  where  he  spent  a  number  of  years.  In  1837 
he  gave  to  the  public  The  French  Revolution,  which  was  followed 
in  1839  by  Chartism.  Six  lectures,  delivered  in  London  in  1840, 
were  published  the  next  year,  under  the  name  of  Heroes,  Hero- 
Worship,  and  the  Heroic  in  History.  A  volume  called  Miscel- 
lanies, which  comprised  a  number  of  the  critical  and  miscel- 
laneous essays  previously  contributed  to  Reviews  and  Magazines, 
was  issued  about  1840.  Then  followed,  successively,  Past  and 
Present  (1843),  Letters  and  Speeches  of  Oliver  Cromwell  (1845), 
Latter  Day  Pamphlets  (1850),  Life  of  John  Sterling  (1851),  Life 
of  Frederick  the  Or  eat  (1858-64),  The  Early  Kings  of  Norway 
26  *  U  G05 


306  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


(1875),  and  also'  The  Portraits  of  John  Knox.  In  1866  Carlyle 
was  installed  Lord  Rector  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh.  He 
died  February  5,  1881. 

The  two  extracts  that  follow  are  from  Sartor  Resartus,  and 
illustrate,  as  we  think,  the  two  alternating  moods  of  the  work, 
— the  one  of  profound  sentiment,  the  other  of  grotesque  satire. 

Beautiful  it  was  to  sit  there,  as  in  my  skyey  Tent,  musing  and  meditating ; 
on  the  high  table-land,  in  front  of  the  Mountains;  over  me,  as  roof,  the 
azure  Dome,  and  around  me,  for  walls,  four  azure  flowing  curtains, — namely, 
of  the  Four  azure  Winds,  on  whose  bottom-fringes  also  I  have  seen  gilding. 
And  then  to  fancy  the  fair  Castles,  that  stood  sheltered  in  these  Mountain 
hollows;  with  their  green  flower  lawns,  and  white  dames  and  damosels, 
lovely  enough :  or  better  still,  the  straw-roofed  Cottages,  wherein  stood 
many  a  Mother  baking  bread,  with  her  children  round  her : — all  hidden 
and  protectingly  folded  up  in  the  valley-folds ;  yet  there  arid  alive,  as  sure 
as  if  I  beheld  them.  Or  to  see,  as  well  as  fancy,  the  nine  Towns  and  Vil- 
lages, that  lay  round  my  mountain-seat,  which,  in  still  weather,  were  wont 
to  speak  to  me  (by  their  steeple-bells)  with  metal  tongue;  and,  in  almost 
all  veather,  proclaimed  their  vitality  by  repeated  Smoke-clouds ;  whereon, 
as  on  a  culinary  horologue,  I  might  read  the  hour  of  the  day.  .  .  . 

Often  also  could  I  see  the  black  Tempest  marching  in  anger  through  the 
Distance :  around  some  Schreckhorn,  as  yet  grim-blue,  would  the  eddying 
vapor  gather,  and  there  tumultuously  eddy,  and  flow  down  like  a  mad 
witch's  hair ;  till,  after  a  space,  it  vanished,  and,  in  the  clear  sunbeam, 
your  Schreckhorn  stood  smiling  grim-white,  for  the  vapor  had  held  snow. 
How  thou  fermentest  and  elaboratest  in  thy  great  fermenting — vat  and 
laboratory  of  an  Atmosphere,  of  a  World,  O  Nature ! — Or  what  is  Nature? 
I  la !  why  do  I  not  name  thce  God?  Art  thou  not  the  "  Living  Garment 
of  God?"  O  Heavens,  is  it,  in  very  deed,  He  then  that  ever  speaks 
through  thee ;  that  lives  and  loves  in  thee,  that  lives  and  loves  in  me  ? 
Fore-shadows,  call  them  rather  fore-splendors,  of  that  Truth  and  Beginning 
cf  Truths,  fell  mysteriously  over  my  soul.  Sweeter  than  Dayspring  to  the 
Shipwrecked  in  Nova  Zembla ;  ah !  like  the  mother's  voice  to  her  little 
child  that  strays  bewildered,  weeping,  in  unknown  tumults;  like  soft 
streamings  of  celestial  music  to  my  too  exasperated  heart,  came  that  Evan- 
gel. The  Universe  is  not  dead  and  demoniacal,  a  charnel-house  with  spec- 
tres :  but  godlike  and  my  Father's. 

•  With  other  eyes,  too,  could  I  now  look  upon  my  fellow  man ;  with  an 
infinite  Love,  an  infinite  Pity.  Poor,  wandering,  wayward  man !  Art 
thou  not  tried,  and  beaten  with  stripes,  even  as  I  am?  Ever,  whether 
thou  bear  the  royal  mantle  or  the  beggar's  gabardine,  art  thou  not  so  weary, 
so  heavy-laden ;  and  thy  Bed  of  Rest  is  but  a  grave.  O  my  Brother,  my 
Brother,  why  cannot  I  shelter  thee  in  my  bosom,  and  wipe  away  all  tears 
from  thy  eyes ! — Truly,  the  din  of  many- voiced  Life,  which  in  this  solitude, 
with  the  mind's  organ,  I  could  hear,  was  no  longer  a  maddening  discord, 
but  a  melting  one :  like  inarticulate  cries,  and  sobbings  of  a  dumb  creature, 
which  in  the  ear  of  Heaven  are  prayers.  The  poor  Earth,  with  her  poor 
joys,  was  now  my  needy  Mother,  not  my  cruel  Stepdame ;  Man,  with  his 
so  mad  Wants  and  so  mean  Endeavors,  had  become  the  dearer  to  me ;  and 
even  for  his  sufferings  and  his  sins,  I  now  first  named  him  brother.  Thus 


CARLYLE.  307 


was  I  standing  in  the  porch  of  that  "  Sanctuary  of  Sorrow ; "  by  strange, 
steep  ways,  had  I  too  been  guided  thither ;  and  ere  long  its  sacred  gates 
would  open,  and  the  "  Divine  Depth  of  Sorrow  "  lie  disclosed  to  me. 

The  gladder  am  I,  on  the  other  hand,  to  do  reverence  to  those  Shells  and 
outer  Husks  of  the  Body,  wherein  no  devilish  passion  any  longer  lodges, 
but  only  the  pure  emblem  and  effigies  of  Man :  I  mean,  to  Empty,  or  even 
to  Cast  Clothes.  Nay,  is  it  not  to  Clothes  that  most  men  do  reverence :  to 
the  fine  frogged  broadcloth,  nowise  to  the  "  straddling  animal  with  bandy 
legs"  which  it  holds,  and  makes  a  Dignitary  of?  Who  ever  saw  any  Lord 
my-lorded  in  tattered  blanket,  fastened  with  wooden  skewer  ?  Neverthe- 
less, 1  say,  there  is  in  such  worship  a  shade  of  hypocrisy,  a  practical  decep- 
tion :  for  how  often  does  the  Body  appropriate  what  was  meant  for  the 
Cloth  only !  Whoso  would  avoid  Falsehood,  which  is  the  essence  of  all 
Sin,  will  perhaps  see  good  to  take  a  different  course.  That  reverence  which 
cannot  act  without  obstruction  and  perversion  when  the  Clothes  are  full, 
may  have  free  course  when  they  are  empty.  Even  as,  for  Hindoo  Wor- 
shipers, the  Pagoda  is  not  less  sacred  than  the  God;  so  do  I  too  worship 
the  hollow  cloth  Garment  with  equal  fervor  as  when  it  contained  the  Man ; 
nay,  with  more,  for  I  now  fear  no  deception,  of  myself  or  of  others. 

WThat  still  dignity  dwells  in  a  suit  of  Cast  Clothes !  How  meekly  it 
bears  its  honors !  No  haughty  looks,  no  scornful  gesture :  silent  and  serene, 
it  fronts  the  world ;  neither  demanding  worship,  nor  afraid  to  miss  it.  The 
Hat  still  carries  the  physiognomy  of  its  Head :  but  the  vanity  and  the  stu- 
pidity, and  goose-speech  which  was  the  sign  of  these  two,  are  gone.  The 
Coat-arm  is  stretched  out,  but  not  to  strike ;  the  Breeches,  in  modest  sim- 
plicity, depend  at  ease,  and  now  at  last  have  a  graceful  flow ;  the  Waistcoat 
hides  no  evil  passion,  no  riotous  desire ;  hunger  or  thirst  now  dwell  not  in 
it.  Thus  all  is  purged  from  the  grossness  of  sense,  from  the  carking  cares 
and  foul  vices  of  the  World ;  and  rides  there,  on  its  Clothes-horse,  as,  on 
a  Pegasus,  like  some  skyey  Messenger,  or  purified  Apparition,  visiting 
our  low  Earth. 

Often,  while  I  sojourned  in  that  monstrous  tuberosity  of  Civilized  Life, 
the  Capital  of  England ;  and  meditated,  and  questioned  Destiny,  under 
that  ink-sea  of  vapor,  black,  thick,  and  multifarious  as  Spartan  broth  ;  and 
was  one  lone  soul  amid  those  grinding  millions : — often  have  I  turned  into 
their  Old  Clothes  Market  to  worship.  With  awe-struck  heart  I  walk 
through  that  Monmouth  Street,  with  its  empty  Suits,  as  through  a  sanhe- 
drim of  stainless  Ghosts.  Silent  are  they,  but  expressive  in  their  silence  : 
the  past  witnesses  and  instruments  of  Woe  and  Joy,  of  Passions,  Virtues, 
Crimes,  and  all  the  fathomless  tumult  of  Good  and  Evil  in  "the  Prison 
men  call  Life."  Friends !  trust  not  the  heart  of  that  man  for  whom  old 
Clothes  are  not  venerable.  Watch,  too,  with  reverence,  that  bearded  Jew- 
ish high-priest,  who,  with  hoarse  voice,  like  some  Angel  of  Doom,  sum- 
mons them  from  the  four  winds !  On  his  head,  like  the  Pope,  he  has  three 
Hats, — a  real  triple  tiara;  on  either  hand  are  the  similitude  of  wings, 
whereon  the  summoned  garments  come  to  alight ;  and  ever,  as  he  slowly 
cleaves  the  air,  sounds  forth  his  deep,  fearful  note,  as  if  through  a  trumpet 
he  were  proclaiming :  "  Ghosts  of  Life,  come  to  Judgment ! "  Reck  not, 
ye  fluttering  Ghosts,  he  will  purify  you  in  his  Purgatory,  with  fire  and 
with  water ;  and,  one  day,  new-created  ye  shall  reappear. 

Oh !  let  him  in  whom  the  flame  of  Devotion  is  ready  to  go  out,  who  has 
never  worshiped,  and  knows  not  what  to  worship,  pace  and  repace,  with 
austerest  thought,  the  pavement  cf  Monmouth  Street,  and  say  whether  nis 


308  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

heart  and  his  eyes  still  continue  dry.  If  Field  Lane,  with  its  long  flutter- 
ing rows  of  yellow  handkerchiefs,'  be  a  Dionysius'  Ear,  where,  in  stifled, 
jarring  hubbub,  we  hear  the  Indictment  which  Poverty  and  Vice  bring 
against  lazy  Wealth,  that  it  has  left  them  these  cast-out  and  trodden-under- 
foot  of  Want,  Darkness,  and  the  Devil, — then  is  Monmouth  Street  a  Mirza's 
Hill,  where,  in  motley  vision,  the  whole  Pageant  of  Existence  passes 
awfully  before  us ;  with  its  wail  and  jubilee,  mad  loves  and  mad  hatreds, 
church  bells  and  gallows  ropes,  farce-tragedy,  beast-godhood, — the  Bedlam 
of  Creation! 


From  Carlyle's  work  On  Heroes,  Hero-  Worship,  and  the 
Heroic  in  History,  we  excerpt : 

I.— THE  HERO  GENERALLY   AND  AS  DIVINITY. 

We  have  undertaken  to  discourse  here  for  a  little  on  Great  Men,  their 
manner  of  appearance  in  our  world's  business,  how  they  have  shaped 
themselves  in  the  world's  history,  what  ideas  men  formed  of  them,  what 
work  they  did ; — on  Heroes,  namely,  and  on  their  reception  and  perform- 
ance ;  what  I  call  Hero-worship  and  the  Heroic  in  human  affairs.  A  large 
topic;  indeed,  an  illimitable  one;  wide  as  Universal  I  1  istory  itself.  For, 
as  I  take  it,  Universal  History,  the  history  of  what  man  has  accomplished 
in  this  world,  is  at  bottom  the  History  of  the  Great  Men  who  have  worked 
here.  They  were  the  leaders  of  men,  these  great  ones;  the  model  less 
patterns,  and  in  a  wide  sense  creators,  of  whatsoever  the  general  mass  of 
men  contrived  to  do  or  to  attain ;  all  things  that  we  see  standing  accom- 
plished in  the  world  are  properly  the  outer  material  result,  the  practical 
realization  and  embodiment,  of  Thoughts  that  dwell  in  the  Great  Men  sent 
into  the  world :  the  soul  of  the  whole  world's  history,  it  may  justly  be  con- 
sidered, were  the  history  of  these. 

One  comfort  is,  that  Great  Men,  taken  up  in  any  way,  are  profitable 
company.  We  cannot  look,  however  imperfectly,  upon  a  great  man,  with- 
out gaining  something  by  him.  He  is  the  living  light-fountain,  which  it 
is  good  and  pleasant  to  be  near.  The  light  which  enlightens,  which  has 
enlightened  the  darkness  of  the  world, — and  this  not  as  a  kindled  lamp 
only,  but  rather  as  a  natural  luminary  shining  by  the  gift  of  Heaven, — a 
flowing  light-fountain,  as  I  say,  of  native  original  insight,  of  manhood  and 
heroic  nobleness,  in  whose  radiance  all  souls  feel  that  it  is  well  with 
them.  .  .  . 

And  if  worship  even  of  a  star  had  some  meaning  in  it,  how  much  more 
might  that  of  a  Hero!  Worship  of  a  Hero  is  transcendent  admiration  of 
a  Great  Man.  1  say  great  men  are  still  admirable ;  I  say  there  is,  at  bot- 
tom, nothing  else  admirable !  No  nobler  feeling  than  this  of  admiration 
for  one  higher  than  himself  dwells  in  the  breast  of  man.  It  is  to  this  hour, 
and  at  all  hours,  the  vivif/ing  influence  in  man's  life.  Keligion  I  find 
stands  upon  it ;  not  Paganism  only,  but  far  higher  and  truer  religion, — all 
religion  hitherto 
submission,  burning 
that  the  germ  of 

whom  we  do  not  name  here !  Let  sacred  silence  meditale  that  sacred  mat- 
ter; you  will-find  it  the  ultimate  perfection  of  a  principle  extant  through- 
out man' a  whole  history  on  earth. 


CARLYLE.  309 


H.— THE   HERO   AS  POET. 

The  Poet  is  a  heroic  figure  belonging  to  all  ages ;  whom  all  ages  possess, 
when  once  he  is  produced ;  whom  the  newest  age  as  the  oldest  may  pro- 
duce,— and  will  produce,  always  when  Nature  pleases.  Let  Nature  send  a 
Hero-soul ;  in  no  age  is  it  other  than  possible  that  he  may  be  shaped  into 
a  Poet.  I  will  remark  again,  however,  as  a  fact  not  unimportant  to  be 
understood,  that  the  different  sphere  constitutes  the  grand  origin  of  such 
distinction;  that  the  Hero  can  be  Poet,  Prophet,  King,  Priest,  or  what 
you  will,  according  to  the  kind  of  wor]d  he  finds  himself  born  into.  I  con- 
fess I  have  no  notion  of  a  truly  great  man  that  could  not  be  all  sorts  of 
men.  The  Poet  who  could  merely  sit  on  a  chair,  and  compose  stanzas, 
would  never  make  a  stanza  worth  much.  He  could  not  sing  the  Heroic 
warrior,  unless  he  himself  were  at  least  a  Heroic  warrior  too.  I  fancy 
there  is  in  him  the  Politician,  the  Thinker,  Legislator,  Philosopher ; — in 
one  or  the  other  degree  he  could  have  been,  he  is  all  these. 

So  too  I  cannot  understand  how  a  Mirabeau,  with  that  great  glowing 
heart,  with  the  fire  that  was  in  it,  with  the  bursting  tears  that  were  in  it, 
could  not  have  written  verses,  tragedies,  poems,  and  touched  all  hearts  in 
that  wray,  had  his  course  of  life  and  education  led  him  thitherward.  The 
grand  fundamental  character  is  that  of  Great  Man ;  that  the  man  be  great. 
Napoleon  has  words  in  him  which  are  like  Austerlitz  Battles.  Louis  Four- 
teenth's Marshals  are  a  kind  of  poetical  men  withal ;  the  things  Turenne 
says  are  full  of  sagacity  and  geniality,  like  sayings  of  Samuel  Johnson. 
The  great  heart,  the  clear,  deep-seeing  eye :  there  it  lies ;  no  man  what- 
ever, in  what  province  soever,  can  prosper  at  all  without  these.  Petrarch 
and  Boccaccio  did  diplomatic  messages,  it  seems,  quite  well ;  one  can  easily 
believe  it ;  they  had  done  things  a  little  harder  than  these !  Burns,  a 
gifted  song-writer,  might  have  made  a  still  better  Mirabeau.  Shakspeare, 
— one  knows  not  what  he  could  not  have  made,  in  the  supreme  degree. 

m.— THE  HERO   AS  PRIEST. 

The  Priest  too,  as  I  understand  it,  is  a  kind  of  Prophet ;  in  him  too 
there  is  required  to  be  a  light  of  inspiration,  as  we  must  name  it.  He  pre- 
sides over  the  worship  of  the  people ;  is  the  Uniter  of  them  with  the  Un- 
seen Holy.  He  is  the  spiritual  Captain  of  the  people;  as  the  Prophet  is 
their  spiritual  King  with  many  captains :  he  guides  them  heavenward,  by 
wise  guidance  through  this  Karth  and  its  work.  The  ideal  of  him  is,  that 
he  too  be  what  we  can  call  a  voice  from  the  unseen  Heaven ;  interpreting, 
even  as  the  Prophet  did,  and  in  a  more  familiar  manner  unfolding  the 
same  to  men.  The  unseen  Heaven, — the  "open  secret  of  the  Universe," 
which  so  few  have  an  eye  for !  lie  is  the  Prophet  shorn  of  his  more  awful 
splendor ;  burning  with  mild  equable  radiance,  as  the  enlightener  of  daily 
life.  This,  I  say,  is  the  ideal  of  a  Priest.  So  in  old  times ;  so  in  these, 
and  in  all  times. 

IV.— THE  HERO  AS  MAN  OP  LETTERS. 

The  Hero  as  Man  of  Letters,  again,  is  altogether  a  product  of  these  new 
ages;  and  so  long  as  the  wondrous  art  of  Writing,  or  of  Ready-writing 
which  we  call  Printing,  subsists,  he  may  be  expected  to  continue,  as  one  of 
the  main  forms  of  I  leroism  for  all  future  ages.  He  is,  in  various  respects, 
a  very  singular  phenomenon.  He  is  new,  I  say ;  he  has  hardly  lasted 
above  a  century  in  the  world  yet.  Never,  till  about  a  hundred  years 


310  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


was  there  seen  any  figure  of  a  Great  Soul  living  apart  in  that  anomalous 
manner;  endeavoring  to  speak  forth  the  inspiration  that  was  in  him  by 
Printed  Books,  and  find  place  and  subsistence  by  what  the  world  would 
please  to  give  him  for  doing  that.  Much  has  been  sold  and  bought,  and 
left  to  make  its  own  bargain  in  the  market-place ;  but  the  inspired  wisdom 
of  a  Heroic  soul  never  till  then,  in  that  naked  manner.  He,  with  his  copy- 
rights and  copy-wrongs,  in  his  squalid  garret,  in  his  rusty  coat;  ruling  (for 
this  is  what  he  does)  from  his  grave,  after  death,  whole  nations  and  gener- 
ations who  would,  or  would  not,  give  him  bread  while  living, — is  a  rather 
curious  spectacle !  Few  shapes  of  Heroism  can  be  more  unexpected.  .  .  . 

If  Hero  be  taken  to  mean  genuine,  then  I  say  the  Hero  as  Man  of  Let- 
ters will  be  found  discharging  a  function  for  us  which  is  ever  honorable, 
ever  the  highest ;  and  was  once  well  known  to  be  the  highest.  He  is  utter- 
ing forth,  in  such  way  as  he  has,  the  inspired  soul  of  him ;  all  that  a  man, 
in  any  case,  can  do.  I  say  inspired;  for  what  we  call  "originality,"  "sin- 
cerity," "  genius,"  the  heroic  quality  we  have  no  good  name  for,  signifies 
that.  The  Hero  is  he  who  lives  in  the  inward  sphere  of  things,  in  the 
True,  Divine,  and  Eternal,  which  exists  always,  unseen  to  most,  under  the 
Temporary,  Trivial :  his  being  is  in  that ;  he'  declares  that  abroad,  by  act 
or  speech  as  it  may  be,  in  declaring  himself  abroad.  His  life  is  a  piece  of 
the  everlasting  heart  of  Nature  herself :  all  men's  life  is, — but  the  weak 
may  know  not  the  fact,  and  are  untrue  to  it,  in  most  times ;  the  strong — 
few  are  strong,  heroic,  perennial,  because  it  cannot  be  hidden  from  them. 
The  Man  of  Letters,  like  every  Hero,  is  there  to  proclaim  this  in  such  sort 
as  he  can.  Intrinsically  it  is  the  same  function  which  the  old  generations 
named  a  man  Prophet,  Priest,  Divinity  for  doing ;  which  all  manner  of 
Heroes,  by  speech  or  by  act,  are  sent  into  the  world  to  do. 

V.— THE  HERO  AS  KING. 

The  Commander  over  Men,  he  to  whose  will  our  wills  are  to  be  subordi- 
nated, and  loyally  surrender  themselves,  and  find  their  welfare  in  doing  so, 
may  be  reckoned  the  most  important  of  Great  Men.  He  is  practically  the 
summary  for  us  of  all  the  various  figures  of  Heroism ;  Priest,  Teacher,  what- 
soever of  earthly  or  of  spiritual  dignity  we  can  fancy  to  reside  in  a  man, 
embodies  itself  here,  to  command  over  us,  to  furnish  us  Avith  constant 
practical  teaching,  to  tell  us  for  the  day  and  hour  what  we  are  to  do.  He 
is  called  R<x,  Kegulator,  Roi:  our  own  name  is  still  better ;  King,  Kdnniny, 
which  means  Can-mng,  Able-man.  .  .  . 

The  finding  of  your  Ableman,  and  getting  him  invested  with  the  symbols 
of  ability,  with  dignity,  worship  (worth-ship),  royalty,  kinghood,  or  whatever 
we  call  it,  so  that  he  may  actually  have  room  to  guide  according  to  his 
faculty  of  doing  it,  is  the  business,  well  or  ill  accomplished,  of  all  social 
procedure  whatsoever  in  this  world!  Hustings-speeches,  Parliamentary 
motions,  Eeform  Bills,  French  Revolutions,  all  mean  at  heart  this ;  or  else 
nothing.  Find  in  any  country  the  Ablest  man  that  exists  there ;  raise  him 
to  the  supreme  place,  and  loyally  reverence  him :  you  have  a  perfect  gov- 
ernment for  that  country  ;  no  ballot-box,  parliamentary  eloquence,  voting, 
constitution-building,  or  other  machinery  whatsoever  can  improve  it  a  whit. 
It  is  in  the  perfect  state ;  an  ideal  country.  The  Ablest  Man ;  he  means 
also  the  truest-hearted,  justest,  the  Noblest  Man :  what  he  tells  us  to  do 
must  be  precisely  the  wisest,  fittest,  that  we  could  anywhere  or  anyhow 
learn ; — the  thing  which  it  will  in  all  ways  behove  us,  with  right  royal 
thankfulness,  and  nothing  doubting,  to  do  1  Our  doing  and  life  were  then, 


CARLYLE.  311 


so  far  as  government  could  regulate  it,  well  regulated :  that  were  the  ideal 
of  constitutions. 

As  a  sample  of  the  prevailing  character  of  Carlyle's  great  work 
— History  of  Frederick  the  Great — we  present  the  following  frag- 
ment of 

THE  BATTLE   OF  PRAG. 

Schwerin's  Prussians,  as  they  "march  up"  (that  is,  as  they  front  and 
advance  upon  the  Austrians),  are  everywhere  saluted  by  case-shot  from 
Homoly  Hill  and  the  batteries  northward  of  Homoly ;  but  march  on,  this 
main  line  of  them,  finely  regardless  of  it,  or  of  Winterfeld's  disaster  by  it. 

The  general  Prussian  order  this  day  is :  "  By  push  of  bayonet ;  no  firms1, 
— none,  at  any  rate,  till  you  see  the  whites  of  their  eyes!"  Swift,  steady 
as  on  the  parade-ground,  swiftly  making  up  their  gaps  again,  the  Prussians 
advance  on  these  terms,  and  are  now  near  those  "  fine  sleek  pasture-grounds, 
unusually  green  for  the  season."  Figure  the  actual  stepping  upon  these 
"fine  pasture-grounds:" — mud-tanks,  verdant  with  mere  "bearding  cat- 
crop"  sown  there  as  carp  provender!  Figure  the  sinking  of  whole  regi- 
ments to  the  knee ;  to  the  middle,  some  of  them  ;  the  steady  march  become 
a  wild  sprawl  through  viscous  mud,  mere  case-shot  singing  round  you,  tear- 
ing you  away  at  its  ease ! 

Even  on  those  terrible  terms,  the  Prussians,  by  dams,  by  footpaths,  some- 
times one  man  abreast,  sprawl  steadily  forward,  trailing  their  cannon  with 
them ;  only  a  few  regiments,  in  the  footpath  parts,  cannot  bring  their 
cannon.  Forward  ;  rank  again,  when  the  ground  will  carry  ;  ever  forward, 
the  case-shot  getting  ever  more  murderous !  No  human  pen  can  describe 
the  deadly  chaos  which  ensued  in  that  quarter.  Which  lasted,  in  desperate 
fury,  issue  dubious,  for  above  three  hours ;  and  was  the  crisis,  or  essential 
agony,  of  the  Battle.  Foot-chargings  (once  the  mud-transit  was  accom- 
plished), under  storms  of  grape-shot  from  Homoly  Hill ;  by  and  by,  horse- 
chargings,  Prussian  against  Austrian,  southward  of  Homoly  and  Sterbohol, 
still  farther  to  the  Prussian  left;  huge  whirlpool  of  tumultuous  death- 
wrestle,  every  species  of  spasmodic  effort,  on  the  one  side  and  the  other ; — 
King  himself  present  there,  as  1  dimly  discover ;  Feldmarschall  Browne 
eminent,  in  the  last  of  his  fields ;  and,  as  the  old  Niebdungen  has  it,  "  a 
murder  grim  and  great"  going  on. 

Schwerin's  Prussians,  in  that  preliminary  struggle  through  the  mud-tanks 
(which  Winterfeld,  I  think,  had  happened  to  skirt  and  avoid),  were  hard 
bested.  This,  so  far  as  1  can  learn,  was  the  worst  of  the  chaos,  this  prelim- 
inary part.  Intolerable  to  human  nature,  this,  or  nearly  so ;  even  to  human 
nature  of  the  Platt-Teutsch  type,  improved  by  Prussian  drill.  Winterfeld's 
repulse  we  saw  ;  Schwerin's  own  Regiment  in  it.  Various  repulses,  I  per- 
ceive, there  were, — "fresh  regiments  from  our  Second  Line"  storming  in 


And  after  long  scanning,  1  rather  judge  it  was  in  the  wake  of  that  first 
repulse,  and  not  of  some  other  further  on,  that  the  veteran  Schwerin  him- 
self got  his  death.  No  one  times  it  for  us ;  but  the  fact  is  unforgetable  ; 
and  in  the  dim  whirl  of  sequences,  dimly  places  itself  there.  Very  certain 
it  is,  "  at  sight  of  his  own  regiment  in  retreat,"  Feldmarschall  Schwerin 


312  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITEEATVRE. 

seized  the  colors, — as  did  other  Generals,  who  are  not  named,  that  day. 
Seizes  the  colors,  fiery  old  man:  " Heran,  meine  Kinder  (This  way,  my 
sons) ! "  and  rides  ahead,  along  the  straight  dam  again,  his  "  sons "  all 
turning,  and  with  hot  repentance  following.  "On,  my  children,  Heranf" 
Five  bits  of  grape-shot,  deadly  each  of  them,  at  once  hit  the  old  man ;  dead 
he  sinks  there  on  his  flag;  and  will  never  fight  more.  "Heran!"  storm 
the  others  with  hot  tears ;  Adjutant  von  Platen  takes  the  flag :  Platen,  too, 
is  instantly  shot ;  but  another  takes  it.  "  Heran,  on ! "  in  wild  storm  of 
rage  and  grief  : — in  a  word,  they  manage  to  do  the  work  at  Sterbohol, 
they  and  the  rest.  First  line,  Second  line,  Infantry,  Cavalry  (and  even  the 
very  horses,  I  suppose),  fighting  inexpressibly ;  conquering  one  of  the  worst 
problems  ever  seen  in  War.  For  the  Austrians,  too,  especially  their 
grenadiers  there,  stood  to  it  toughly,  and  fought  like  men ; — and  "  every 
grenadier  that  survived  of  them,"  as  I  read  afterwards,  "got  double  pay 
for  life." 

Done,  that  Sterbohol  work; — those  Foot-chargings,  Horse  chargings; 
that  battery  of  Homoly  Hill ;  and,  hanging  upon  that,  all  manner  of  re- 
doubts and  batteries  to  the  rightward  and  rearward : — but  how  it  was  done 
no  pen  can  describe,  nor  any  intellect  in  clear  sequence  understand.  An 
enormous  melee  there :  new  Prussian  battalions  charging,  and  ever  new, 
irrepressible  by  case-shot,  as  they  successively  get  up ;  Marshal  Browne  too 
senoling  for  new  battalions  at  double-quick  from  his  left,  disputing  stiffly 
eveiy  inch  of  his  ground.  Till  at  length  (hour  not  given),  a  cannon-shot 
tore  away  his  foot ;  and  he  had  to  be  carried  into  Prag,  mortally  wounded. 
"Which  probably  was  a  most  important  circumstance,  or  the  most  important 
of  all. 

Important  too,  I  gradually  see,  was  that  of  the  Prussian  Horse  of  the 
Left  Wing.  Prussian  Horse  of  the  extreme  left,  as  already  noticed,  had, 
in  the  mean  while,  fallen  in,  well  southward,  round  by  certain  lakelets 
about  Michelup,  on  Browne's  extreme  right ;  furiously  charging  the  Aus- 
trian Horse,  which  stood  ranked  there  in  many  lines;  breaking  it,  then 
again  half  broken  by  it ;  but  again  rallying,  charging  it  a  second  time,  then 
a  third  time,  "both  to  front  and  flank,  amid  whirlwinds  of  dust  (Ziethen 
busy  there,  not  to  mention  indignant  Warnery  and  others) ; — and  at  length, 
driving  it  wholly  to  the  winds :  "  beyond  Nussel,  towards  the  Sazawa  Coun- 
try ; "  never  seen  again  that  day. 

Prince  Karl  (after  Browne's  death-wound,  or  before,  I  never  knew)  came 
galloping  to  rally  that  important  Eight  Wing  of  horse.  Prince  Karl  did 
his  very  utmost  there ;  obtesting,  praying,  raging,  threatening ; — but  to  no 
purpose ;  the  Zietheners  and  others  so  heavy  on  the  rear  of  them : — and  at 
last  there  came  a  cramp,  or  intolerable  twinge  of  spasm,  through  Prince 
Karl's  own  person  (breast  or  heart),  like  to  take  the  life  of  him:  so  that 
he  too  had  to  be  carried  into  Prag  to  the  doctors.  And  his  Cavalry  fled  at 
discretion  ;  chased  by  Ziethen,  on  Frederick's  express  order,  and  sent  quite 
over  the  horizon.  Enough,  "by  about  half-past  one,"  Sterbohol  work  is 
thoroughly  done ;  and  the  Austrian  Battle,  both  its  Commanders  gone,  has 
heeled  fairly  downwards,  and  is  in  an  ominous  way. 

The  whole  of  this  Austrian  Eight  Wing,  horse  and  foot,  batteries  and 
redoubts,  which  was  put  en  potence,  or  square-wise,  to  the  main  battle,  is 
become  a  ruin ;  gone  to  confusion ;  hovers  in  distracted  clouds,  seeking 
roads  to  run  away  by,  which  it  ultimately  found.  Done  all  this  surely 
was ;  and  poor  Browne,  mortally  wounded,  is  being  carried  off  the  ground  ; 
but  in  what  sequence  done,  under  what  exact  vicissitudes  of  aspect,  special 


CARLYLE.  313 


steps  of  cause  and  effect,  no  man  can  say  ;  and  only  imagination,  guided  by 
these  few  data,  can  paint  to  itself.  Such  a  chaotic  whirlwind  of  blood, 
dust,  mud,  artillery— thunder,  sulphurous  rage,  and  human  death  and  vic- 
tory,— who  shall  pretend  to  describe  it,  or  draw,  except  on  the  grass,  the 
scientific  plan  of  it  ? 

"  Carlyle  is  sometimes  regarded  as  a  philosopher.  He  was  a 
philosopher  only  in  a  very  qualified  sense.  He  saw  some  truths, 
not  very  remote  or  difficult  to  discern  clearly,  and  gave  them  ap- 
propriate expression.  He  philosophized,  without  being  a  phil- 
osopher. His  true  interest  lay  not  in  analysis,  but  synthesis.  He 
saw  life  as  a  whole;  sympathized  with  all  varieties  of  human  action 
and  human  character,  and  penetrated  into  the  depths  of  human 
nature,  revealing  the  secret  motives  which  influence  men,  and 
interpreting  the  outward  expression  of  complicated  thought  and 
intricate  emotion. 

"  He  was  not  a  poet ;  but  he  had  poetry  in  him  in  abundance. 
His  art  was  rough-hewn,  but  it  was  art.  He  makes  men  and  places 
present  to  our  eyes,  colored  and  shaped,  as  in  reality,  and,  remem- 
bering the  words  of  his  great  German  friend  (Goethe),  '  the  spirit 
of  the  Keal  is  the  true  Ideal,'  he  pierces  to  the  very  heart  of  an 
object,  and  shows  us  its  essential  form,  bringing  that  object,  be  it 
place  or  person,  not  from  'some  vanished  world,  some  oriental 
clime  or  period  of  chivalry,  but  from  the  real  world  as  it  lies  about 
us  and  within  us.'  It  was  principally  through  this  vision  and 
faculty  divine,  through  this  power  of  '  concrete  representation/ 
that  Carlyle's  genius  made  itself  felt. 

"  His  Moral  Philosophy  was  molded  on  his  cardinal  principle  of 
the  supremacy  of  the  heroic  elements  in  human  nature.  The  doc- 
trine of  Rights  was  to  be  superseded  by  the  doctrine  of  Mights. 
Always  resting  on  the  principle  of  Force,  Carlyle  was  only  too  often 
on  the  side  of  the  strongest  battalion  ;  his  innate  perception  of  the 
just  was  always  distorted  by  his  predilection  for  the  strong.  The 
same  error,  the  same  worship  of  Power  reappears  in  the  politics  of 
Carlyle. 

"  As  a  spiritual  teacher,  as  an  inspiring  orator,  as  a  brilliant  Op- 
position speaker,  his  influence  will  wane  with  the  waning  years. 
But  as  an  historical  painter,  as  a  philosophical  humorist,  as  a  lit- 
erary artist,  Thomas  Carlyle  will  have  a  share  in  the  perennial  exist- 
ence which  is  the  assured  inheritance  of '  the  splendors  in  the  firma- 
ment of  Time,  that  may  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not.'  "* 

*  Westminster  Review,  April,  1881. 
27 


GEORGE    GROTE. 


GEORGE  GROTE  was  born  in  1794,  at  Clay  Hall,  near  Berken- 
ham,  in  Kent,  England.  After  a  limited  service  as  clerk  in  his 
father's  banking-house,  he  turned  his  attention  to  politics,  and 
in  1832  represented  London  in  Parliament.  He  was  twice  re- 
elected  ;  but,  as  if  premonished  that  the  political  life  was  not 
that  in  which  he  was  destined  to  achieve  distinction,  he  retired 
from  participation  in  public  affairs  in  1841. 

Grote's  earliest  literary  productions  were  articles  contributed 
to  the  Westminster  arid  Edinburgh  Reviews.  The  work,  how- 
ever, which  first  attracted  general  attention,  and  with  which 
his  reputation  as  a  writer  has  been  and  will  hereafter  be  bound 
up,  is  his  History  of  Greece.  This  work,  from  the  time  its  first 
two  volumes  appeared  (1846)  until  the  twelfth  and  last  one  was 
issued,  engrossed  ten  years— and  the  most  vital  ten — of  our 
author's  life.  Beginning  with  the  legends  respecting  the  gods 
of  the  Greeks,  it  brings  the  narrative  down  to  the  death  of  that 
last  claimant  of  divine  extraction — Alexander  the  Great.  From 
volume  first  of  this  history,  we  extract,  in  a  slightly  condensed 
form,  the 

ABGONAUTIC   EXPEDITION. 

The  sons  of  Phryxus  were  cordially  welcomed  by  their  mother  Chalkiopd. 
Application  was  made  to  Aeetes,  that  he  would  grant  to  the  Argonauts, 
heroes  of  divine  parentage  and  sent  forth  by  the  mandate  of  the  gods,  pos- 
session of  the  golden  fleece :  their  aid  in  return  was  proffered  to  him  against 
any  or  all  of  his  enemies.  But  the  king  was  wroth,  and  peremptorily  re- 
fused, except  upon  conditions  which  seemed  impracticable. 

Hephaestos  had  given  him  two  ferocious  and  untameable  bulls  with 
brazen  feet,  which  breathed  fire  from  their  nostrils :  'Jason  was  invited,  as 
a  proof  both  of  his  illustrious  descent  and  of  the  sanction  of  the  gods  to  his 
voyage,  to  harness  these  animals  to  the  yoke,  so  as  to  plough  a  large  field 
and  sow  it  with  dragon's  teeth.  Perilous  as  the  condition  was,  each  one  of 
the  heroes  volunteered  to  make  the  attempt.  Idmoii  especially  encov.raged 
.lason  to  undertake  it,  and  the  goddesses  Here  and  Aphrodite  made  straight 
the  way  for  him.  Medea,  the  daughter  of  Aeetes  and  Eidyia,  having  seen 
the  youthful  hero  in  his  interview  writh  her  father,  had  conceived  towards 

314 


QROTR  315 


him  a  passion  which  disposed  her  to  employ  every  means  for  his  salvation 
and  success.  She  had  received  from  Hekate  pre-eminent  magical  powers 
and  she  prepared  for  Jason  the  powerful  Prometheian  unguent,  extracted 
from  a  herb  which  had  grown  where  the  blood  of  Prometheus  dropped. 
The  body  of  Jason  having  been  thus  pre-medicated,  became  invulnerable 
either  by  fire  or  by  warlike  weapons.  He  undertook  the  enterprise,  yoked 
the  bulls  without  suffering  injury,  and  ploughed  the  field :  when  he  had 
sown  the  dragon's  teeth,  armed  men  sprang  out  of  the  furrows.  But  he 
had  been  forewarned  by  Medea  to  cast  a  vast  rock  into  the  midst  of  them, 
upon  which  they  began  to  fight  with  each  other,  so  that  he  was  easily 
enabled  to  subdue  them  all. 

The  task  prescribed  had  thus  been  triumphantly  performed.  Yet  Aeet£s 
not  only  refused  to  hand  over  the  golden  fleece,  but  even  took  measures  for 
secretly  destroying  the  Argonauts  and  burning  their  vessel.  He  designed 
to  murder  them  during  the  night  after  a  festal  banquet;  but  Aphrodite, 
watchful  for  the  safety  of  Jason,  inspired  the  Kolchian  king  at  the  critical 
moment  writh  an  irresistible  inclination  for  his  nuptial  bed.  While  he  slept, 
the  wise  Idmon  counselled  the  Argonauts  to  make  their  escape,  and  Medea 
agreed  to  accompany  them.  She  lulled  to  sleep  by  a  magic  potion  the 
dragon  who  guarded  the  golden  fleece,  placed  that  much-desired  prize  on 
board  the  vessel,  and  accompanied  Jason  with  his  companions  in  their 
flight,  carrying  along  with  her  the  young  Apsyrtus,  her  brother. 

Aeete's,  profoundly  exasperated  at  the  flight  of  the  Argonauts  with  his 
daughter,  assembled  his  forces  forthwith,  and  put  to  sea  in  pursuit  of  them. 
So  energetic  were  his  efforts  that  he  shortly  overtook  the  retreating  vessel, 
when  the  Argonauts  again  owed  their  safety  to  the  stratagem  of  Mfidea. 
She  killed  her  brother  Apsyrtus,  cut  his  body  in  pieces  and  strewed  the 
limbs  round  about  in  the  sea.  Aeet£s  on  reaching  the  spot  found  these 
sorrowful  traces  of  his  murdered  son ;  but  while  he  tarried  to  collect  the 
scattered  fragments,  and  bestow  upon  the  body  an  honorable  interment,  the 
A  rgonauts  escaped.  The  spot  on  which  the  unfortunate  Apsyrtus  was  cut 
up  received  the  name  of  Tomi. 

The  fratricide  of  Medea,  however,  so  deeply  provoked  the  indignation 
of  Zeus,  that  he  condemned  the  Argo  and  her  crew  to  a  trying  voyage,  full 
of  hardship  and  privation,  before  she  was  permitted  to  reach  home.  The 
returning  heroes  traversed  an  immeasurable  length  both  of  sea  and  of  river ; 
first  up  the  river  Phasis  into  the  ocean  which  flows  round  the  earth ;  then 
following  the  course  of  that  circumfluous  stream  until  its  junction  with  the 
Nile,  they  came  down  the  Nile  into  Egypt,  from  whence  they  carried  the 
Argo  on  their  shoulders  by  a  fatiguing  land-journey  to  the  lake  Tritonis  in 
Libya.  Here  they  were  rescued  from  the  extremity  of  want  and  exhaustion 
by  the  kindness  of  the  local  god  Triton,  who  treated  them  hospitably,  and 
even  presented  to  Euphemus  a  clod  of  earth,  as  a  symbolical  promise  that 
his  descendants  should  one  day  found  a  city  on  the  Libyan  shore.  The 
promise  wras  amply  redeemed  by  the  flourishing  and  powerful  city  of 
Kyren6,  whose  princes,  the  Battiads,  boasted  themselves  as  lineal  descend- 
ants of  Euphemus. 

Refreshed  by  the  hospitality  of  Triton,  the  Argonauts  found  themselves 
again  on  the  waters  of  the  Mediterranean  on  their  way  homeward.  But 
before  they  arrived  at  lolkos  they  visited  Circe,  at  the  island  of  Aeaea, 
where  M£dea  was  purified  for  the  murder  of  Apsyrtus :  they  also  stopped 
at  Korkyra,  then  called  Drepane,  where  Alkinous  received  and  protected 
them.  The  cave  in  that  island  where  the  marriage  of  Medea  with  Jasdn 


316  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

was  consummated  was  still  shown  in  the  time  of  the  historian  Timaeus,  as 
well  as  the  altars  to  Apollo  which  she  had  erected,  and  the  rites  and  sacri- 
fices which  she  had  first  instituted.  After  leaving  Korkyra,  the  Argo  was 
overtaken  by  a  perilous  storm  near  the  island  of  Thera.  "  The  heroes  were 
saved  from  imminent  peril  by  the  supernatural  aid  of  Apollo,  who,  shoot- 
ing from  his  golden  bow  an  arrow  which  pierced  the  waves  like  a  track  of 
light,  caused  a  new  island  suddenly  to  spring  up  in  their  track  and  present 
to  them  a  port  of  refuge.  The  island  was  called  Anaphi ;  and  the  grateful 
Argonauts  established  upon  it  an  altar  and  sacrifices  in  honor  of  Apollo 
Aegletes,  which  were  ever  afterwards  continued,  and  traced  back  by  the 
inhabitants  to  this  originating  adventure. 

On  approaching  the  coast  of  Krete,  the  Argonauts  were  prevented  from 
landing  by  Talos,  a  man  of  brass,  fabricated  by  Hephaestos,  and  presented 
by  him  to  Minos  for  the  protection  of  the  island.  This  vigilant  sentinel 
hurled  against  the  approaching  vessel  fragments  of  rock,  and  menaced  the 
heroes  with  destruction.  But  Medea  deceived  him  by  a  stratagem  and 
killed  him,  detecting  and  assailing  the  one  vulnerable  point  in  his  body. 
The  Argonauts  were  thus  enabled  to  land  and  refresh  themselves.  They 
next  proceeded  onward  to  Aegina,  where,  however,  they  again  experienced 
resistance  before  they  could  obtain  water ;  then  along  the  coast  of  Euboea 
and  Lokris  back  to  I61kos  in  the  gulf  of  Pagasae,  the  place  from  whence 
they  had  started.  The  ship  Argo  herself,  in  which  the  chosen  heroes  of 
Greece  had  performed  so  long  a  voyage  and  braved  so  many  dangers,  was 
consecrated  by  Jason  to  Poseidon  at  the  isthmus  of  Corinth.  According  to 
another  account,  she  was  translated  to  the  stars  by  Athene,  and  became  a 
constellation. 

Next,  we  transcribe  from  volume  seven,  Grote's  description  of 

THE   MUTILATION  OF   THE  HERMAE. 

These  Hermae,  or  half-statues  of  the  god  Hermes,  were  blocks  of  marble 
about  the  height  of  the  human  figure.  The  upper  part  was  cut  into  a  head, 
face,  neck,  and  bust ;  the  lower  part  was  left  a  quadrangular  pillar,  broad 
at  the  base,  without  arms,  body,  or  legs,  but  with  the  significant  mark  of 
the  male  sex  in  front.  They  were  distributed  in  great  numbers  throughout 
Athens,  and  always  in  the  most  conspicuous  situations ;  standing  beside  the 
outer  doors  of  private  houses,  as  well  as  of  temples,  near  the  most  frequented 
porticos,  at  the  intersection  of  cross  ways,  in  the  public  agora.  They  were 
thus  present  to  every  Athenian  in  all  his  acts  of  intercommunion,  either 
for  business  or  pleasure,  with  his  fellow-citizens.  The  religious  feelings  of 
the  Greeks  considered  the  god  to  be  planted  or  domiciliated  where  his 
statue  stood,  so  that  the  companionship,  sympathy,  and  guardianship  of 
Herme's  became  associated  with  most  of  the  manifestations  of  conjunct  life 
at  Athens, — political,  social,  commercial,  or  gymnastic.  Moreover,  the 
quadrangular  fashion  of  these  statues,  employed  occasionally  for  other  gods 
besides  Hermes,  was  a  most  ancient  relic  handed  down  from  the  primitive 
rudeness  of  Pelasgian  workmanship,  and  was  popular  in  Arcadia,  as  well 
as  peculiarly  frequent  in  Athens. 

About  the  end  of  May,  415  B.  c.,  in  the  course  of  one  and  the  same  night, 
all  these  Hermae,  one  of  the  most  peculiar  marks  of  the  city,  were  muti- 
lated by  unknown  hands.  Their  characteristic  features  were  knocked  off 
or  levelled,  so  that  nothing  was  left  except  a  mass  of  stone  with  no 


GROTE.  317 


resemblance  to  humanity  or  deity.  All  wers  thus  dealt  with  in  the  same 
way,  save  and  except  very  few :  nay,  Andokides  affirms,  and  I  incline  to 
believe  him,  that  there  was  but  one  which  escaped  unharmed. 

It  is  of  course  impossible  for  any  one  to  sympathize  fully  with  the  feel- 
ings of  a  religion  not  his  own :  indeed,  the  sentiment  with  which,  in  the 
case  of  persons  of  different  creeds,  each  regards  the  strong  emotions  grow- 
ing out  of  causes  peculiar  to  the  other,  is  usually  one  of  surprise  that  such 
trifles  and  absurdities  can  occasion  any  serious  distress  or  excitement.  But 
if  we  take  that  reasonable  pains,  which  is  incumbent  on  those  who  study 
the  history  of  Greece,  to  realize  in  our  minds  the  religious  and  political 
associations  of  the  Athenians,  noted  in  ancient  times  for  their  superior 
piety,  as  well  as  for  their  accuracy  and  magnificence  about  the  visible  monu- 
ment embodying  that  feeling, — we  shall  in  part  comprehend  the  intensity 
of  mingled  dismay,  terror,  and  wrath,  which  beset  the  public  mind  on  the 
morning  after  this  nocturnal  sacrilege,  alike  unforeseen  and  unparalleled. 
Amidst  all  the  ruin  and  impoverishment  which  had  been  inflicted  by  the 
Persian  invasion  of  Attica,  there  was  nothing  which  was  so  profoundly  felt, 
or  so  long  remembered  as  the  deliberate  burning  of  the  statues  and  temples 
of  the  gods. 

If  we  could  imagine  the  excitement  of  a  Spanish  or  Italian  town,  on 
finding  that  all  the  images  of  the  Virgin  had  been  defaced  during  the  same 
night,  we  should  have  a  parallel,  though  a  very  inadequate  parallel,  to 
what  was  now  felt  at  Athens,  where  religious  associations  and  persons  were 
far  more  intimately  allied  with  civil  acts,  and  with  all  the  proceedings  of 
every-day  life ;  where,  too,  the  god  and  his  efficiency  were  more  forcibly 
localized,  as  well  as  identified  with  the  presence  and  keeping  of  the  statue. 
To  the  Athenians,  when  they  went  forth  on  the  following  morning,  each 
man  seeing  the  divine  guardian  at  his  doorway  dishonored  and  defaced, 
and  each  man  gradually  coming  to  know  that  the  devastation  was  general, 
it  would  seem  that  the  town  had  become,  as  it  were,  godless ;  that  the  streets, 
the  market-place,  the  porticos,  were  robbed  of  their  divine  protectors ;  and 
what  was  worse  still,  that  these  protectors,  having  been  grossly  insulted,, 
carried  away  with  them  alienated  sentiments,  wrathful  and  vindictive,  in- 
stead of  tutelary  and  sympathizing. 

It  was  on  the  protection  of  the  gods  that  all  their  political  constitution, 
rs  well  as  the  blessings  of  civil  life,  depended  ;  insomuch  that  the  curses  of 
the  gods  were  habitually  invoked,  as  sanction  and  punishment  for  grave 
offences,  political,  as  well  as  others;  an  extension  and  generalization  of  the 
feeling  still  attached  to  the  judicial  rath.  This  was,  in  the  minds  of  the 
people  of  Athens,  a  sincere  and  literal  conviction,  not  simply  a  form  of 
speech  to  be  pronounced  in  prayers  and  public  harangues,  without  being 
ever  construed  as  a  reality  in  calculating  consequences,  and  determining 
practical  measures.  Accordingly,  they  drew  from  the  mutilation  of  the 
Hermae  the  inference,  not  less  natural  than  terrifying,  that  heavy  public 
misfortune  was  impending  over  the  city,  and  that  the  political  constitution 
to  which  they  were  attached  was  in  imminent  danger  of  being  subverted. 

"  It  is  the  third  time  that  the  history  of  Greece  has  been  handled 
by  an  Englishman  with  such  success  as  at  once  to  throw  all  pre- 
vious works  on  the  same  subject  into  the  shade.  To  far  more  than 
Mitford's  experience  of  public  life,  he  joins  an  intimacy  with  the 
classical  nuthors  and  their  foreign  commentators,  at  least  equal  to 
27* 


318  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


that  of  his  immediate  predecessor  (Thirlwall).  A  man  of  business 
and  a  recluse  professor,  a  strenuous  advocate  of  vote  by  ballot,  and 
an  indefatigable  student  of  classical  antiquity,  are  the  elements 
which  have  met  together  in  this  laborious  performance.  The 
union  of  experience  which  Arnold  so  earnestly  desired,  and  which 
Niebuhr  to  a  certain  extent  enjoyed,  for  the  history  of  Rome  has 
been  now,  probably  for  the  first  time,  exemplified  in  the  third 
English  historian  of  Greece. 

"From  the  most  general  laws  of  thought  to  the  most  minute 
incidents,  he  has  labored — and  successfully  labored — to  reproduce 
the  impression  which  they  made  upon  the  mind  of  the  Greek 
people.  The  contrast  of  the  moral  state  of  the  heroic  with  that 
of  the  later  ages  of  Greece — the  enumeration  of  the  various  points 
which  distinguished  the  moral  sentiments  of  the  Greek  race  from 
those  of  all  contemporary  nations — the  power  of  Greek  religion 
and  Greek  art  as  a  uniting  force  to  control  'the  centrifugal  tenden- 
cies '  of  Grecian  politics — the  extraordinary  and  definite  impulse 
given  to  the  Greek,  and  especially  to  the  Athenian,  mind  by  the 
first  development  of  the  democratic  principle,  as  exemplified  in 
the  revolution  of  Clisthenes — the  peculiar  reputation  won  for 
Sparta  at  Thermopylae,  lost  at  Sphacteria,  and  regained  at  Man- 
tinea,  that  'the  Lacedaemonians  die,  but  never  surrender' — the 
permanent  and  impressive  influence  exercised  over  the  feelings  of 
every  Grecian  state  by  the  regard  to  the  rights  of  sanctuary  and  of 
the  great  festivals : — these  are  merely  some  out  of  many  points  in 
which  the  student  of  Greek  history  will  feel  that  he  has  derived 
from  these  volumes  a  flood  of  light,  in  which  the  particular  facts 
of  the  history  stand  out,  as  if  for  the  first  time,  in  distinct  and 
intelligible  relation  with  each  other. 

"  With  a  strict  attention  to  the  laws  of  evidence,  with  a  masculine 
sagacity  and  common  sense  which  prevents  his  intellect  from  sink- 
ing under  the  load  of  his  learning,  he  has  placed  himself  in  the 
niivlst  of  the  facts  which  he  relates,  not  merely  as  a  judge,  but  as 
a  spectator.  And  this  position  he  has  gained,  not  merely  by  a 
general  perusal  of  the  ancient  writers,  or  by  his  unwearied  investi- 
gation of  the  most  recent  tracts  of  France  and  Germany,  but  by 
deep  and  accurate  study  of  the  language  of  the  original  authors 
themselves.  In  this  assertion  of  what  seems  to  us  the  pervading 
and  paramount  excellence  of  this  work,  we  have  been  insensibly 
approaching  to  what  most  readers,  perhaps,  will  regard  as  its  chief 
defect, — namely,  its  stubborn  disregard  or  rejection  of  the  finer 
charms  of  composition.  Instead  of  the  marble  colonnades  and 
polished  corners,  which  here,  if  anywhere,  might  be  expected,  we 
find  a  mass  of  Cyclopean  architecture — huge  masses  of  stone' fitted 


GROTE.  319 


together  more  like  natural  rock-work  than  human  workman- 
ship. 

"  One  point  remains — the  high  moral  tone  which  breathes  through 
the  whole  work ;  not  merely  the  total  absence  of  ostentation  or 
affectation,  or  the  singleminded  search  after  truth,  which  is  implied 
in  all  that  we  have  already  said  of  its  composition;  but  the  gen- 
uine fervor  in  behalf  of  what  is  free,  and  generous,  and  just,  which 
gives  to  his  narrative  a  permanent  value  both  as  an  example  and 
incentive,  even  to  those  who  may  differ  most  widely  from  his  polit- 
ical opinions."  * 

Nine  years  elapsed  before  Grote  again  appeared  before  the  pub- 
lic, when  he  published  (1865)  Plato  and  the  other  Companions  of 
Sokrates.  As  an  extract  from  this  work,  we  cite  the  chapter  on  the 

LIFE  OF  PLATO. 

Plato  was  born  at  Aegina  (in  which  island  his  father  enjoyed  an  estate 
as  kleruch  or  out-settled  citizen)  in  the  month  Thargelion  (May)  of  the 
year  B.  c.  427.  .  .  .  Plato  was  first  called  Aristokles,  after  his  grandfather ; 
but  received  when  he  grew  up  the  name  of  Plato — on  account  of  the 
breadth  (we  are  told)  either  of  his  forehead  or  of  his  shoulders.  Endowed 
with  a  robust  physical  frame,  and  exercised  in  gymnastics,  not  merely  in 
one  of  the  palaestrae  of  Athens  (which  he  describes  graphically  in  the 
Charmides)  but  also  under  an  Argeian  trainer,  he  attained  such  force  and 
skill  as  to  contend  (if  we  may  credit  Dikaearchusj  for  the  prize  of  wrest- 
ling among  boys  at  the  Isthmian  festival. 

His  literary  training  was  commenced  under  a  schoolmaster  named 
Pionysius,  and  pursued  under  Drakon,  a  celebrated  teacher  of  music,  in  the 
large  sense  then  attached  to  that  word.  He  is  said  to  have  displayed  both 
diligence  and  remarkable  quickness  of  apprehension,  combined,  too,  with 
the  utmost  gravity  and  modesty.  He  not  only  acquired  great  familiarity 
with  the  poets,  but  composed  poetry  of  his  own  — dithyrambic,  lyric,  and 
tragic :  and  he  is  even  reported  to  have  prepared  a  tragic  tetralogy,  with 
the  view  of  competing  for  victory  at  the  Dionysian  festival.  We  aVe  told 
that  he  burned  these  poems  when  lie  attached  himself  to  the  society  of 
Sokrates.  No  compositions  in  verse  remain  under  his  name,  except  a  few 
epigrams — amatory,  affectionate,  and  of  great  poetical  beauty.  Hut  there 
is  ample  proof  in  his  dialogues  that  the  cast  of  his  mind  was  essentially 
poetical.  Many  of  his  philosophical  speculations  are  nearly  allied  to 
poetry,  and  acquire  their  hold  upon  the  mind  rather  througli  imagination 
and  sentiment  than  througli  reason  or  evidence.  .  .  . 

It  was  at  this  period,  about  386  B.  c.,  that  the  continuous  and  formal 
public  teaching  of  Plato,  constituting  as  it  does  so  great  an  epoch  in  philos- 
ophy, commenced.  .  .  .  The  spot- selected  by  Plato  for  his  lectures  or  teach- 
ing was  a  garden  adjoining  the  precinct  sacred  to  the  Hero  Hekad£mus  or 
Akademus,  distant  from  the  gate  of  Athens  called  Dipylon  somewhat  less 
than  a  mile,  on  the  road  to  Eleusis,  towards  the  north.  In  this  precinct 
there  were  both  walks,  shaded»by  trees,  and  a  gymnasium  for  bodily  exer- 
cise :  close  adjoining,  Plato  either  inherited  or  acquired  a  small  dwelling- 

£ _ -     _. 

*  London  Quarterly  Review,  April,  1850. 


820  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


house  and  garden,  his  own  private  property.  Here,  under  the  name  of  the 
Academy,  was  founded  the  earliest  of  those  schools  of  philosophy,  which 
continued  for  centuries  forward  to  guide  and  stimulate  the  speculative 
minds  of  Greece  and  Home.  .  .  . 

Though  Plato  demanded  no  money  as  fee  for  admission  of  pupils,  yet 
neither  did  he  scruple  to  receive  presents  from  rich  men  such  as  Dionysius, 
Dion,  and  others.  In  the  jests  of  Ephippus,  Antiphanes,  and  other  "poets 
of  the  middle  comedy,  the  pupils  of  Plato  in  the  Academy  are  described  as 
finely  and  delicately  clad,  nice  in  their  persons  even  to  affectation,  with 
elegant  caps  and  canes ;  which  is  the  more  to  be  noticed  because  the  pre- 
ceding comic  poets  derided  Sokrates  and  his  companions  for  qualities  the 
very  opposite — as  prosing  beggars,  in  mean  attire  and  dirt.  Such  students 
must  have  belonged  to  opulent  families ;  and  we  may  be  sure  that  they 
requited  their  master  by  some  valuable  present,  though  no  fee  may  have 
been  formally  demanded"  from  them.  Some  conditions  (though  we  do  not 
know  what)  were  doubtless  required  for  admission.  At  any  rate,  the 
teaching  of  Plato  formed  a  marked  contrast  with  that  extreme  and  indis- 
criminate publicity  which  characterized  the  conversation  of  Sokrates,  who 
passed  his  days  in  the  market-place  or  in  the  public  porticoes  or  palaestrae  ; 
while  Plato  both  dwelt  and  discoursed  in  a  quiet  residence  and  garden  a 
little  way  out  of  Athens.  .  .  . 

The  latter  half  of  Plato's  life  in  his  native  city  must  have  been  one  of 
dignity  and  consideration,  though  not  of  any  political  activity.  He  is  said 
to  have  addressed  the  Dikastery  as  an  advocate  for  the  accused  general 
Chabrias :  and  we  are  told  that  he  discharged  the  expensive  and  showy 
functions  of  Chore'gus  with  funds  supplied  by  Dion.  Out  of  Athens,  also, 
his  reputation  was  very  great.  When  he  went  to  the  Olympic  festival  of 
B.  c.  360,  he  was  an  object  .of  conspicuous  attention  and  respect :  he  was 
visited  by  hearers,  young  men  of  rank  and  ambition,  from  the  most  distant 
Hellenic  cities ;  and  his  advice  was  respectfully  invoked  both  by  Perdikkas 
in  Macedonia  and  by  Dionysius  II.  at  Syracuse. 

"  Grote's  determination  is  to  abide  by  the  canon  of  Thrasyllus  in 
the  settlement  of  all  questions  relating  to  the  genuineness  of  Plato's 
writings,  deciding  them  rather  by  external  evidences  than  by  those 
internal  indications  of  their  origin,  the  uncertainty  of  which  is 
demonstrated  by  the  fact  that  they  wear  an  entirely  different 
aspect  according  to  the  prepossessions  of  the  various  minds  by 
which  they  are  interpreted.  With  similar  judgment,  he  has  dis- 
missed the  elaborate  schemes  for  grouping  the  various  Dialogues 
together,  which  have  found  favor  with  some  speculative  commen- 
tators, but  the  complicated  character  of  which  he  rightly  regards 
as  a  reason  sufficient  to  warrant  their  rejection. 

"  Probably  many  would  say  that  one  so  intensely  practical  in  the 
whole  turn  of  his  mind,  is  not  capable  of  thoroughly  appreciating 
the  peculiar  genius  of  Plato,  and  we  are  not  prepared  to  deny  the 
force  of  this  objection.  Still,  whatever  exceptions  may  he  taken  to 
many  of  his  criticisms,  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that  this  boojc,  with  its 
massive  learning,  its  vivid  sketches,  not  only  of  Plato,  but  still 
more  of  his  great  teacher,  others  of  his  associates,  and  its  pains- 


GROTE.  321 


taking  analysis  of  his  several  works,  is  one  of  the  noblest  tributes 
that  has  yet  been  raised  in  honor  of  the  great  founder  of  Athenian 
philosophy."* 

In  1868  appeared  Grote's  Review  of  Stuart  Mitt's  Examination  of 
Sir  Wm.  Hamilton's  Philosophy.  His  last  and  most  ambitious,  but 
also  most  fragmentary,  work  was  Aristotle,  which  was  given  to  the 
world  the  year  following  its  venerable  and  illustrious  author's 
decease.  Grote  died  in  London,  June  18,  1871. 

"Grote  could  conceive  of  nothing  on  a  small  scale.  Looking 
back  as  we  do  now,  we  can  see  that  it  would  have  been  more  fortu- 
nate had  he  contented  himself  with  an  attempt  to  deal  with  a  lim- 
ited province  of  the  Aristotelian  philosophy.  It  must  be  a  matter 
of  regret  to  us  that  Grote  did  not  propose  to  himself,  first,  at  all 
events,  that  part  of  the  task  of  an  Aristotelian  expositor  for  which 
he  had  pre-eminent  qualifications,  namely,  the  setting  forth  and 
illustration  of  Aristotle's  political  and  ethical  systems,  and  of  his 
views  on  rhetoric  and  poetry. 

"  He  had  undertaken  to  write  an  account  of  the  golden  period 
of  philosophy  in  Greece,  and  it  may  never  have  suggested  itself  to 
him  to  attempt  anything  smaller  than  a  systematic  review  of  the 
whole.  With  a  noble  rashness  he  threw  himself,  in  his  seventy- 
first  year,  upon  the  task  of  mastering  and  analyzing  the  entire 
works  of  Aristotle,  which  in  the  Oxford  edition  of  the  original 
Greek  fill  eleven  octavo  volumes,  and  on  the  various  questions 
connected  with  which  more  books  have  been  written  than  on  the 
whole  political  history  of  Greece  taken  together.  The  six  years  of 
life  now  remaining  to  Grote  were  all  too  few  for  the  accomplish- 
ment of  his  task.  What  he  was  able  to  achieve  the  two  large  vol- 
umes now  published  show.  The  work  is  a  mere  torso,  and  yet  is 
a  monument  of  splendid  industry,  which  may  well  serve  as  an 
example  aud  stimulus  to  the  youth  of  this  country. "f 

"  Grote  is  not  a  writer  who  has  done  his  work  superficially.  No 
German  could  be  more  exact  in  detail,  more  unwearied  in  research, 
and,  perhaps  some  readers  would  say,  more  painful  in  the  elabora- 
tion of  the  minutest  points  of  his  subject.  Happily  for  himself,  in 
other  points  he  has  very  little  of  the  spirit  of  the  great  German 
scholars.  He  has  no  novel  theory  of  his  own  to  propound,  and  to 
which  the  facts  must  be  made  to  conform,  but  is  content  to  take 
the  more  humble  but  more  useful  position  of  a  simple  historian 
and  interpreter.  In  all  his  judgments,  he  displays  that  sound 
practical  sense  so  characteristic  of  all  that  he  has  written."! 

*  British  Quarterly  Review,  Oct.,  '65.  t  Edinburgh  Review,  Oct.,  '72. 

I  British  Quarterly  Review,  Oct.,  '65. 

V 


THOMAS   BABINGTON   MACAULAY. 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY  was  born  October  25,  1800, 
at  Rothley  Temple,  Leicestershire.  His  career  throughout  was 
singularly  prosperous,  eminent,  and  brilliant.  Entering  Trin- 
ity College,  Cambridge,  at  eighteen,  he  speedily  established  a 
name  for  scholarship  ;  twice  carried  off  the  Chancellor's  Medal 
for  excellence  in  poetical  composition  ;  for  classical  proficiency 
was  elected,  in  1821,  to  the  Craven  Scholarship ;  graduated 
Bachelor  of  Arts  ;  was  elected  a  Fellow  of  Trinity  ;  and  finally 
received,  in  1825,  the  distinction  of  Master  of  Arts. 

He  was  called  to  the  Bar  at  Lincoln's  Inn  in  1826,  and  two 
years  after  was  appointed  Commissioner  of  Bankruptcy.  In 
1830  began  his  Parliamentary  career,  in  which,  as  a  Whig,  he 
bore  a  conspicuous  and  honorable  part  in  furthering  all  meas- 
ures tending  toward  the  establishment  of  liberal  and  just  gov- 
ernment. Sent  to  India,  in  1834,  as  a  member  of  the  Supreme 
Council  of  Calcutta,  he  prepared  while  there  a  Penal  Code  of 
Laws,  which  subsequently  were  made  the  basis  of  the  legal  sys- 
tem of  the  country. 

Secretary  of  War  in  1839,  Member  of  Parliament  for  city  of 
Edinburgh  in  1840,  Paymaster-General  of  the  Forces  and  Mem- 
ber of  Cabinet  in  1846,  Lord  Rector  of  the  University  of  Glasgow 
and  Bencher  of  Lincoln's  Inn  in  1849,  Professor  of  Ancient 
History  in  the  Royal  Academy  in  1850,  recipient  of  the  Prussian 
Order  of  Merit  in  1853,  Member  of  Parliament  a  second  time 
from  Edinburgh, — these  were  the  distinctions  that  trooped  to 
greet  and  to  glorify  the  advancing  years  of  his  fruitful  life. 

In  1856,  wearied  of  public  services  and  honors,  instinctively 
urged  to  a  closer  intimacy  with  literary  pursuits,  and  admon- 
ished by  declining  health,  he  relinquished  all  public  trusts  and 
withdrew  to  private  life.  But  not  alone ;  for  close  behind  him 

322 


MACAULAY.  323 


followed  (1857)  his  promotion  to  the  peerage.     A  brief  promo- 
tion, however,  for  he  died  December  28,  1859. 

Though  the  foregoing  events  might  seem  sufficiently  numerous 
and  grave  to  engross  the  energies  of  even  an  extraordinary  life, 
yet  they  by  no  means  exhausted  the  activities  of  Macaulay's 
life;  for  through  his  entire  career  ran  the  pure,  majestic  current 
of  literary  achievement.  He  was  poet,  essayist,  and  historian, 
as  well  as  legislator,  jurist,  and  orator.  His  earliest  poems, — 
not  to  speak  of  his  college  efforts, — such  as  The  Battle  of  Ivry, 
The  Cavalier  s  March  to  London,  The  Spanish  Armada,  and  A 
Song  of  the  Huguenots, — were  contributed  to  Knight's  Quarterly 
Magazine.  But  in  1842  he  won  a  lasting  reputation  in  this 
field  by  his  publication  of  the  Lays  of  Ancient  Home.  We  have 
space  only  for  the  closing  part  of 

HORATIUS. 

But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 

Have  manfully  been  plied, 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
"  Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius ! " 

Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all. 
"Back,  Lartius!  back,  Herminius! 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall !  " 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius; 

Herminius  darted  back: 
And,  as  they  passed,  beneath  their  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 
But  when  they  turned  their  faces, 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone, 

They  would  have  crossed  once  more. 

But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 

Fell  every  loosened  beam, 
And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream: 
And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 

Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 
As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 

Was  splashed  the  yellow  foain. 


324  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

And  like  a  horse  unbroken 

When  first  he  feels  the  rein, 
The  furious  river  struggled  hard, 

And  tossed  his  tawny  mane; 
And  burst  the  curb,  and  bounded, 

Rejoicing  to  be  free ; 
And  whirling  down,  in  fierce  career, 
Battlement,  and  plank,  and  pier, 

Rushed  headlong  to  the  sea. 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind; 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 
"Down  with  him!"  cried  false  Sextus, 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face. 
"Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars  Porsena, 

"Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace." 

Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  craven  ranks  to  see; 
Naught  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena,      » 

To  Sextus  naught  spake  he ; 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome. 

"Oh,  Tiber!   father  Tiber! 

To  whom  thf>  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day!" 
So  he  spake,  and  speaking  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  his  side, 
And,  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 

Was  heard  from  either  bank; 
But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank ; 
And  when  above  the  surges 

They  saw  his  crest  appear, 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 


MACAULAY.  325 


But  fiercely  ran  the  current, 

Swollen  high  by  months  of  rain : 
And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing; 

And  he  was  sore  in  pain, 
And  heavy  with  his  armor, 

And  spent  with  changing  blows : 
And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking, 

But  still  again  he  rose. 

Never,  I.  ween,  did  swimmer, 

In  such  an  evil  case, 
Struggle  through  such  a  raging  flood 

Safe  to  the  landing  place: 
But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 

By  the  brave  heart  within, 
And  our  good  father  Tiber 

Bare  bravely  up  his  chin. 

"  Curse  on  him ! "  quoth  false  Sextus, 

"Will  not  the  villain  drown? 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 

We  should  have  sacked  the  town!" 
"Heaven  help  him!"  quoth  Lars  Porsena, 

"  And  bring  him  safe  to  shore ; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 

Was  never  seen  before." 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom ; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands, 
Now  round  him  throng  the  Fathers 

To  press  his  gory  hands ; 
And  now  with  shouts  and  clapping, 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 
He  enters  through  the  River-gate, 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land, 

That  was  of  public  right, 
As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plough  from  morn  till  night. 
And  they  made  a  molten  image, 

And  set  it  up  on  high, 
And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 

To  witness  if  I  lie. 

It  stands  in  the  Comitium, 
Plain  for  all  folk  to  see ; 


326  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Horatius  in  his  harness, 

Halting  upon  one  knee ; 
And  underneath  is  written, 

In  letters  all  of  gold, 
How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

"  It  is  a  great  merit  of  these  poems  that  they  are  free  from  am- 
bition and  exaggeration.  Nothing  seems  overdone;  no  tawdry 
piece  of  finery  disfigures  the  simplicity  of  the  plan  that  has  been 
chosen.  They  seem  to  have  been  framed  with  great  artistic^  skill, 
with  much  self-denial  and  abstinence  from  anything  incongruous, 
and  with  a  very  successful  imitation  of  the  effects  intended  to  be 
represented.  Yet  every  here  and  there  images  of  beauty  and  ex- 
pressions of  feeling  are  thrown  out  that  are  wholly  independent  of 
Rome  or  the  Romans,  and  that  appeal  to  the  widest  sensibilities 
of  the  human  heart.  In  point  of  homeliness  of  thought  and  lan- 
guage there  is  often  a  boldness  which  none  but  a  man  conscious  of 
great  powers  of  writing  would  have  ventured  to  show."  * 

His  Essay  on  Milton,  published  in  August,  1825,  introduced 
Macaulay  to  the  readers  of  the  "  Edinburgh  Review ; "  following 
which  effort,  he  continued  for  about  a  score  of  years  to  contribute 
to  this  periodical  essay  after  essay,  in  all  about  forty,  unsurpassed 
in  varied  and  accurate  erudition,  and  in  fervid  eloquence,  by  any 
compositions  of  the  kind  in  the  English  language.  From  his  essay 
on  Milton  we  excerpt  his  summary  of  the  character  of  the  Puritans, 
which,  though  it  may  be  somewhat  familiar,  we  cannot  afford  to 
pass  by,  if  we  would  cite  the  most  splendid  single  passage  to  be 
found  in  our  author's  essays. 

The  Puritans  were  men  whose  minds  had  derived  a  peculiar  character 
from  the  daily  contemplation  of  superior  beings  and  external  interests. 
Not  content  with  acknowledging,  in  general  terms,  an  overruling  Provi- 
dence, they  habitually  ascribed  every  event  to  the  will  of  the  Great  Being, 
for  whose  power  nothing  was  too  vast,  for  whose  inspection  nothing  was  too 
minute.  To  know  him,  to  serve  him,  to  enjoy  him,  was  with  them  the 
great  end  of  existence.  They  rejected  with  contempt  the  ceremonious 
homage  which  other  sects  substituted  for  the  pure  worship  of  the  soul. 
Instead  of  catching  occasional  glimpses  of  the  Deity  through  an  obscuring 
veil,  they  aspired  to  gaze  full  on  the  intolerable  brightness,  and  to  commune 
with  him  face  to  face.  Hence  originated  their  contempt  for  terrestrial 
distinctions.  ' 

The  difference  between  the  greatest  and  the  meanest  of  mankind  seemed 
to  vanish,  when  compared  with  the  boundless  interval  which  separated  the 
whole  race  from  him  on  whom  their  own  eyes  were  constantly  fixed.  They 
recognized  no  title  to  superiority  but  his  favor ;  and,  confident  of  that  favor, 

*  Professor  Wilson  in  Black-wood's  Magazine,  Dec.,  1842. 


MA  CA  ULA  Y.  327 

they  despised  all  the  accomplishments  and  all  the  dignities  of  the  world. 
If  they  were  unacquainted  with  the  works  of  philosophers  and  poets,  they 
were  deeply  read  in  the  oracles  of  God.  If  their  names  were  not  found 
in  the  registers  of  heralds,  they  felt  assured  that  they  were  recorded  in  the 
Book  of  Life.  If  their  steps  were  not  accompanied  by  a  splendid  train 
of  menials,  legions  of  ministering  angels  had  charge  over  them.  Their 
palaces  were  houses  not  made  with  hands :  their  diadems  crowns  of  glory 
that  should  never  fade  away  !  On  the  rich  and  the  eloquent,  on  nobles  and 
priests,  they  looked  down  with  contempt :  for  they  esteemed  themselves 
rich  in  a  more  precious  treasure,  and  eloquent  in  a  more  sublime  language, 
nobles  by  the  right  of  an  earlier  creation,  and  priests  by  the  imposition  of 
a  mightier  hand. 

The  very  meanest  of  them  was  a  being  to  whose  fate  a  mysterious  and 
terrible  importance  belonged — on  whose  slightest  actions  the  spirits  of  light 
and  darkness  looked  with  anxious  interest — who  had  been  destined,  before 
heaven  and  earth  were  created,  to  enjoy  a  felicity  which  should  continue 
when  heaven  and  earth  should  have  passed  away.  Events  which  short- 
sighted politicians  ascribed  to  earthly  causes  had  been  ordained  on  his  ac- 
count. For  his  sake  empires  had  risen,  and  flourished,  and  decayed.  For 
his  sake  the  Almighty  had  proclaimed  his  will  by  the  pen  of  the  evangel- 
ist and  the  harp  of  the  prophet.  He  had  been  rescued  by  no  common 
deliverer  from  the  grasp  of  no  common  foe.  He  had  been  ransomed  by 
the  sweat  of  no  vulgar  agony,  by  the  blood  of  no  earthly  sacrifice.  It  was 
for  him  that  the  sun  had  been  darkened,  that  the  rocks  had  been  rent,  that 
the  dead  had  arisen,  that  all  nature  had  shuddered  at  the  sufferings  of  her 
expiring  God ! 

Thus  the  Puritan  was  made  up  of  two  different  men,  the  one  all  self- 
abasement,  penitence,  gratitude,  passion  ;  the  other  proud,  calm,  inflexible, 
sagacious.  He  prostrated  himself  in  the  dust  before  his  Maker ;  but  he 
set  his  foot  on  the  neck  of  his  king.  In  his  devotional  retirement,  he 
prayed  with  convulsions,  and  groans,  and  tears.  He  was  half  maddened 
by  glorious  or  terrible  illusions.  He  heard  the  lyres  of  angels  or  the 
tempting  whispers  of  fiends.  He  caught  a  gleam  of  the  Beatific  Vision, 
or  woke  screaming  from  dreams  of  everlasting  fire.  Like  Vane,  he  thought 
himself  intrusted  with  the  sceptre  of  the  millennial  year.  Like  Fleetwood, 
he  cried  in  the  bitterness  of  his  soul  that  God  had  hid  his  face  from  him. 
But  when  he  took  his  seat  in  the  council,  or  girt  on  his  sword  for  war, 
these  tempestuous  workings  of  the  soul  had  left  no  perceptible  trace  behind 
them.  People  who  saw  nothing  of  the  godly  but  their  uncouth  visages, 
and  heard  nothing  from  them  but  their  groans  and  their  whining  hymns, 
might  laugh  at  them.  But  those  had  little  reason  to  laugh  who  encountered 
them  in  the  hall  of  debate,  or  in  the  field  of  battle. 

These  fanatics  brought  to  civil  and  military  affairs  a  coolness  of  judg- 
ment and  an  immutability  of  purpose  which  some  writers  have  thought 
inconsistent  with  their  religious  zeal,  but  which  were  in  fact  the  necessary 
effects  of  it.  The  intensity  of  their  feelings  on  one  subject  made  them 
tranquil  on  every  other.  One  overpowering  sentiment  had  subjected  to 
itself  pity  and  hatred,  ambition  and  fear.  Death  had  lost  its  terrors  and 
pleasure  its  charms.  They  had  their  smiles  and  their  tears,  their  raptures 
and  their  sorroAvs,  but  not  for  the  things  of  this  world.  Enthusiasm  had 
made  them  stoics,  had  cleared  their  minds  from  every  vulgar  passion  and 
prejudice,  and  raised  them  above  the  influence  of  danger  and  of  corruption. 
It  sometimes  might  lead  them  to  pursue  unwise  ends,  but  never  to  choose 


328  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


unwise  means.  They  went  through  the  world  like  Sir  Artegale's  iron  man 
Talus  with  his  flail,  crushing  and  trampling  down  oppressors,  mingling 
with  human  beings,  but  having  neither  part  nor  lot  in  human  infirmities; 
insensible  to  fatigue,  to  pleasure,  and  to  pain ;  not  to  be  pierced  by  any 
weapon,  not  to  be  withstood  by  any  barrier. 

"Macaulay  enlightens  inattentive  minds,  as  well  as  he  convinces 
opposing  minds;  he  manifests  as  well  as  he  persuades.  It  is 
impossible  not  to  understand  him ;  he  approaches  the  subject 
under  every  aspect,  he  turns  it  over  on  every  side ;  it  seems  as 
though  he  addressed  himself  to  every  spectator,  and  studied  to 
make  himself  understood  by  every  individual ;  he  calculates  the 
scope  of  every  mind,  and  seeks  for  each  a  lit  mode  of  exposition  ; 
he  takes  us  all  by  the  hand,  and  leads  us  alternately  to  the  end, 
which  he  has  marked  out  beforehand.  When  a  subject  is  obscure, 
he  is  not  content  with  a  first  explanation  ;  he  gives  a  second,  then 
a  third :  he  sheds  light  in  abundance  from  all  sides,  he  searches  for 
it  in  all  regions  of  history ;  and  the  wonderful  thing  is,  that  he  is 
never  long.  In  reading  him  we  find  ourselves  in  our  proper 
sphere;  we  feel  as  though  we  were  born  to  understand;  we  are 
annoyed  to  have  taken  twilight  so  long  for  day ;  we  rejoice  to  see 
this  abounding  light  rising  and  leaping  forth  in  streams;  the  exact 
style,  the  antithesis  of  ideas,  the  harmonious  construction,  the  art- 
fully balanced  paragraphs,  the  vigorous  summaries,  the  regular 
sequence  of  thoughts,  the  frequent  comparisons,  the  fine  arrange- 
ment of  the  whole — not  an  idea  or  phrase  of  his  writings  in  which 
the  talent  and  the  desire  to  explain,  the  characteristic  of  an  orator, 
does  not  shine  forth."  * 

History,  and  particularly  English  history,  had  always  been  a 
favorite  study  with  Macaulay;  and  as  a  result  of  this  application, 
he  gave  to  the  public,  in  1849,  the  first  two  volumes  of  a  work 
which,  beginning  with  the  accession  of  James  II., — where  Hume's 
history  terminated, — was  designed  to  bring  the  history  of  the  Eng- 
lish nation  to  a  point  within  the  memory  of  those  now  living. 
But  two  additional  volumes,  published  in  1855,  and  a  fragmentary 
fifth  one,  issued  since  the  author's  death,  have  sufficed  for  carrying 
out  the  original  intent  only  as  far  as  the  year  1702.  Volume  L 
furnishes  us  with  the  following  description  of 

THE   BATTLE   OF   SEDGEMOOR. 

And  now  the  time  for  the  great  hazard  drew  near.  The  night  was  not 
ill  suited  for  such  an  enterprise.  The  moon  was  indeed  at  the  full,  and  the 
northern  streamers  were  shining  brilliantly.  But  the  marsh  fog  lay  so 
thick  on  Sedgemoor,  that  no  object  could  be  discerned  there  at  the  distance 
of  fifty  paces. 

*  Taine's  English  Literature,  Vol.  II. 


MACAULAY.  329 


The  clock  struck  eleven,  and  the  duke,  with  his  body-guard,  rode  out  of 
the  castle.  He  was  not  in  the  frame  of  mind  which  befits  one  who  is  about 
to  strike  a  decisive  blow.  The  very  children  who  pressed  to  see  him  pass 
observed,  and  long  remembered,  that  his  look  was  sad  and  full  of  evil 
augury.  His  army  marched  by  a  circuitous  path,  nearly  six  miles  in 
length,  toward  the  royal  encampment  on  Sedgemoor.  Part  of  the  route  is 
to  this  day  called  War  Lane.  The  foot  were  led  by  Monmouth  himself. 
The  horse  were  confided  to  Grey,  in  spite  of  the  remonstrances  of  some  who 
remembered  the  mishap  at  Bridport.  Orders  were  given  that  strict  silence 
should  be  preserved,  that  no  drum  should  be  beaten,  and  no  shot  fired. 
The  word  by  which  the  insurgents  were  to  recognize  one  another  in  the 
darkness  was  Soho.  It  had  doubtless  been  selected  in  allusion  to  Soho 
Fields  in  London,  where  their  leader's  palace  stood. 

At  about  one  in  the  morning  of  Monday,  the  sixth  of  July,  the  rebels 
wrere  on  the  open  moor.  But  between  them  and  the  enemy  lay  three  broad 
rhines  filled  with  water  and  soft  mud.  Two  of  these,  called  the  Black 
Ditch  and  the  Langmocr  Rhine,  Monmouth  knew  that  he  must  pass ;  but, 
strange  to  say,  the  existence  of  a  trench,  called  the  Bussex  Rhine,  which 
immediately  covered  the  royal  encampment,  had  not  been  mentioned  to 
him  by  any  of  his  scouts. 

The  wains  which  carried  the  ammunition  remained  at  the  entrance  of 
the  moor.  The  horse  and  foot,  in  a  long,  narrow  column,  passed  the  Black 
Ditch  by  a  causeway.  There  was  a  similar  causeway  across  the  Langmoor 
Rhine ;  but  the  guide,  in  the  fog,  missed  his  way.  There  was  some  delay 
and  some  tumult  before  the  error  could  be  rectified.  At  length  the  passage 
was  effected ;  but,  in  the  confusion,  a  pistol  went  off.  Some  men  of  the 
Horse  Guards,  who  were  on  watch,  heard  the  report,  and  perceived  that  a 
great  multitude  was  advancing  through  the  mist.  They  fired  their  car- 
bines, and  galloped  off  in  different  directions  to  give  the  alarm.  Some 
hastened  to  Weston  Zoyland,  where  the  cavalry  lay.  One  trooper  spurred 
to  the  encampment  of  the  infantry,  and  cried  out,  vehemently,  that  the 
enemy  was  at  hand.  The  drums  of  Dumbarton's  regiment  beat  to  arms, 
and  the  men  got  fast  into  their  ranks.  It  was  time ;  for  Monmouth  was 
already  drawing  up  his  army  for  action.  He  ordered  Grey  to  lead  the  way 
with  the  cavalry,  and  'ollowed  himself  at  the  head  of  the  infantry.  Grey 
pushed  on  till  his  progress  was  unexpectedly  arrested  by  the  Bussex  Rhine. 
On  the  opposite  side  of  the  ditch  the  king's  foot  were  hastily  forming  in 
order  of  battle. 

"For  whom  are  you?"  called  out  an  officer  of  the  Foot  Guards.  "For 
the  king,"  replied  a  voice  from  the  ranks  of  the  rebel  cavalry.  "  For  which 
king?"  was  then  demanded.  The  answer  was  a  shout  of  "King  Mon- 
mouth," mingled  with  the  war  cry,  which  forty  years  before  had  been 
inscribed  on  the  colors  of  the  parliamentary  regiments,  "  God  with  us." 
The  royal  troops  instantly  fired  such  a  volley  of  musketry  as  sent  the  rebel 
horse  flying  in  all  directions.  The  world  agree  to  ascribe  this  ignominious 
rout  to  Grey's  pusillanimity  ;  yet  it  is  by  no  means  clear  that  Churchill 
would  have  succeeded  better  at  the  head  of  men  who  had  never  before 
handled  arms  on  horseback,  and  whose  horses  were  unused,  not  only  to 
stand  fire,  but  to  obey  the  rein. 

A  few  minutes  after  the  duke's  horse  had  dispersed  themselves  over  the 
moor,  his  infantry  came  up,  running  fast,  and  guided  through  the  gloom  by 
the  lighted  matches  of  Dumbarton's  regiment. 

Monmouth  was  startled  by  finding  that  a  broad  and  profound  trench  lay 
28* 


330  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

between  him  and  the  camp  which  he  had  hoped  to  surprise.  The  insur- 
gents halted  on  the  edge  of  the  Rhine,  and  fired.  Part  of  the  royal  infantry 
on  the  opposite  bank  returned  the  fire.  During  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  the  roar  of  the  musketry  was  incessant.  The  Somersetshire  peasants 
behaved  themselves  as  if  they  had  been  veteran  soldiers,  save  only  that 
they  leveled  their  pieces  too  high. 

But  now  the  other  divisions  of  the  royal  army  were  in  motion.  The 
Life  Guards  and  Blues  came  pricking  fast  from  West  on  Zoyland,  and  scat- 
tered in  an  instant  some  of  Grey's  horse  who  had  attempted  to  rally.  The 
fugitives  spread  a  panic  among  their  comrades  in  the  rear,  who  had  charge 
of  the  ammunition.  The  wagoners  drove  off  at  full  speed,  and  never 
stopped  till  they  were  many  miles  from  the  field  of  battle.  Monmouth 
had  hitherto  done  his  part  like  a  stout  and  able  warrior.  He  had  been 
seen  on  foot,  pike  in  hand,  encouraging  his  inl'antry  by  voice  and  by  ex- 
ample. He  was  too  Avell  acquainted  with  military  affairs  not  to  know  that 
all  was  over.  His  men  had  lost  the  advantage  which  surprise  and  darkness 
had  given  them.  They  were  deserted  by  the  horse  and  by  the  ammunition 
wagons. 

The  king's  forces  were  now  united  and  in  good  order.  Feversham  had 
been  awakened  by  the  firing,  had  got  out  of  bed,  had  adjusted  his  cravat, 
had  looked  at  himself  well  in  the  glass,  and  had  come  to  see  what  his  men 
were  doing.  Meanwhile,  what  was  of  much  more  importance,  Churchill 
had  rapidly  made  an  entirely  new  disposition  of  the  royal  infantry.  The 
day  was  about  to  break.  The  event  of  a  conflict  on  an  open  plain,  by  broad 
sunlight,  could  not  be  doubtful ;  yet  Monmouth  should  have  felt  that  it  was 
not  for  him  to  fly  while  thousands  whom  affection  for  him  had  hurried  to 
destruction  were  still  fighting  manfully  in  his  cause.  But  vain  hopes  and 
the  intense  love  of  life  prevailed.  He  saw  that  if  he  tarried  the  royal 
cavalry  would  soon  be  in  the  rear,  and  would  interrupt  his  retreat,  lie 
mounted  and  rode  from  the  field. 

Yet  his  foot,  though  deserted,  made  a  gallant  stand.  The  Life  Guards 
attacked  them  on  the  right,  the  Blues  on  the  left ;  but  the  Somersetshire 
clowns,  with  their  scythes  and  the  butt  ends  of  their  muskets,  faced  the 
royal  horse  like  good  soldiers.  Oglethorpe  made  a  vigorous  attempt  to 
break  them,  and  was  manfully  repulsed.  Sarsfield,  a  brave  Irish  officer, 
whose  name  afterward  obtained  a  melancholy  celebrity,  charged  on  the 
other  flank.  His  men  were  beaten  back.  He  was  himself  struck  to  the 
ground,  and  lay  for  a  time  as  one  dead.  But  the  struggle  of  the  hardy 
rustics  could  not  last.  Their  powder  and  ball  were  spent.  Cries  were 
heard  of  "  Ammunition !  for  God's  sake,  ammunition ! "  But  no  ammuni- 
tion was  at  hand. 

And  now  the  king's  artillery  came  up.  It  had  been  posted  half  a  mile 
off,  on  the  high  road  from  Weston  Zoyland  to  Bridgewater..  So  defective 
were  then  the  appointments  of  an  English  army  that  there  would  have 
been  much  difficulty  in  dragging  the  great  guns  to  the  place  where  the 
battle  was  raging,  had  not  the  Bishop  of  Winchester  offered  his  coach- 
horses  and  traces  for  the  purpose.  Even  when  the  guns  had  arrived,  there 
was  such  a  want  of  gunners  that  a  sergeant  of  Dumbarton's  regiment  was 
forced  to  take  on  himself  the  management  of  several  pieces.  The  cannon, 
however,  though  ill  served,  brought  the  engagement  to  a  speedy  close. 
The  pikes  of  the  rebel  battalions  began  to  shake ;  the  ranks  broke.  The 
king's  cavalry  charged  again,  and  bore  down  everything  before  them.  The 
king's  infantry  came  pouring  across  the  ditch.  Even  in  that  extremity  the 


MAC  A  ULA  Y.  331 


Mendip  miners  stood  bravely  to  their  arms,  and  sold  their  lives  dearly. 
But  the  rout  was  in  a  few  minutes  complete.  Three  hundred  of  the  sol- 
diers had  been  killed  or  wounded.  Of  the  rebels  more  than  a  thousand 
lay  dead  on  the  moor. 

From  Vol.  III.  we  produce  the  following  passages,  descriptive, 

first,  of 

WILLIAM  AND  MARY. 

His  manners  gave  almost  universal  offense.  He  was,  in  truth,  far  better 
qualified  to  save  a  nation  than  to  adorn  a  court.  In  the  highest  parts  of 
statesmanship,  he  had  no  equal  among  his  contemporaries.  He  had  formed 
plans  not  inferior  in  grandeur  and  boldness  to  those  of  Richelieu,  and  had 
carried  them  into  effect  with  a  tact  and  wariness  worthy  of  Mazarin.  Two 
countries,  the  seats  of  civil  liberty  and  the  Reformed  faith,  had  been  pre- 
served by  his  wisdom  and  courage  from  extreme  perils.  Holland  he  had 
delivered  from  foreign,  and  England  from  domestic  foes.  Obstacles  appa- 
rently insurmountable  had  been  interposed  between  him  and  the  ends  on 
which  he  was  intent,  and  these  obstacles  his  genius  had  turned  into  step- 
ping-stones. 

Under  his  dexterous  management,  the  hereditary  enemies  of  his  house 
had  helped  him  to  mount  a  throne,  and  the  persecutors  of  his  religion  had 
helped  him  to  rescue  his  religion  from  persecution.  Fleets  and  armies, 
collected  to  withstand  him,  had,  without  a  struggle,  submitted  to  his  orders. 
Factions  and  sects,  divided  by  moral  antipathies,  had  recognized  him  as 
their  common  head.  Without  carnage,  without  devastation,  he  had  won  a 
victory  compared  with  which  all  the  victories  of  Gustavus  and  Turenne 
were  insignificant.  In  a  few  weeks  he  had  changed  the  relative  position 
of  all  the  states  in  Europe,  and  had  restored  the  equilibrium  which  the 
preponderance  of  one  power  had  destroyed.  In  every  Continental  country 
where  Protestant  congregations  met,  fervent  thanks  were  offered  to  God, 
who,  from  among  the  progeny  of  His  servants,  Maurice,  the  deliverer  of 
Germany,  and  William,  the  deliverer  of  Holland,  had  raised  up  a  third 
deliverer,  the  wisest  and  mightiest  of  all.  ... 

One  of  the  chief  functions  of  our  sovereigns  had  long  been  to  preside 
over  the  society  of  the  capital.  That  function  Charles  the  Second  had 
performed  with  immense  success.  His  easy  bow,  his  good  stories,  his  style 
of  dancing  and  playing  tennis,  the  sound  of  his  cordial  laugh,  were  familiar 
to  all  London.  One  day  he  was  seen  among  the  elms  of  St.  James'  Park 
chatting  with  Dryden  about  poetry.  Another  day  his  arm  was  on  Tom 
Durfey's  shoulder;  and  his  majesty  was  taking  a  second  while  his  com- 
panion sang  "  Phillida,  Phillida,"  or  "  To  horse,  brave  boys,  to  Newmarket, 
to  horse."  But  of  this  sociableness  William  was  entirely  destitute.  He 
seldom  came  forth  from  his  closet ;  and  when  he  appeared  in  the  public 
rooms,  he  stood  among  the  crowd  of  courtiers  and  ladies  stern  and  abstracted, 
making  no  jest  and  smiling  at  none.  His  freezing  look,  his  silence,  the  dry 
and  concise  answers  which  he  uttered  when  he  could  keep  silence  no  longer, 
disgusted  noblemen  who  had  been  accustomed  to  be  slapped  on  the  back  by 
their  royal  masters,  called  Jack  or  Harry,  congratulated  about  race-cups, 
or  rallied  about  actresses.  The  women  missed  the  homage  due  to  their 
sex.  They  observed  that  the  king  spoke  in  a  somewhat  imperious  tone, 
even  to  the  wife  to  whom  he  owed  so  much,  and  whom  he  sincerely  loved 
and  esteemed.  They  were  amused  ani  shocked  to  see  him,  when  the  Priii- 


332  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

cess  Anne  dined  with  him,  and  when  the  first  green  peas  of  the  year  were 
put  on  the  table,  devour  the  whole  dish  without  offering  a  spoonful  to  her 
royal  highness ;  and  they  pronounced  that  this  great  soldier  and  politician 
was  no  better  than  a  Low  Dutch  bear. 

One  misfortune,  which  was  imputed  to  him  as  a  crime,  was  his  bad  Eng- 
lish. He  spoke  our  language,  but  not  well.  His  accent  was  foreign,  his 
diction  was  inelegant,  and  his  vocabulary  seems  to  have  been  no  larger 
than  Avas  necessary  for  the  transaction  of  business.  To  the  difficulty  which 
he  felt  in  expressing  himself,  and  to  his  consciousness  that  his  pronuncia- 
tion was  bad,  must  be  partly  ascribed  the  taciturnity  and  the  short  answers 
which  gave  so  much  offense.  Our  literature  he  was  incapable  of  enjoying 
or  of  understanding.  He  never  once,  during  his  whole  reign,  showed  him- 
self at  the  theatre.  The  poets  who  wrote  Pindaric  verses  in  his  praise 
complained  that  their  flights  of  sublimity  were  beyond  his  comprehension. 
Those  who  are  acquainted  with  the  panegyrical  odes  of  that  age  will  per- 
haps be  of  opinion  that  he  did  not  lose  much  by  his  ignorance. 

It  is  true  that  his  wife  did  her  best  to  supply  what  was  wanting,  and  that 
she  was  excellently  qualified  to  be  the  head  of  the  court.  She  was  English 
by  birth,  and  English  also  in  her  tastes  and  feelings.  Her  face  was  hand- 
some, her  port  majestic,  her  temper  sweet  and  lively,  her  manners  affable 
and  graceful.  Her  understanding,  though  very  imperfectly  cultivated,  was 
quick.  There  was  no  want  of  feminine  wit  and  shrewdness  in  her  conver- 
sation, and  her  letters  were  so  well  expressed  that  they  deserved  to  be  well 
spelled.  She  took  much  pleasure  in  the  lighter  kinds  of  literature,  and  did 
something  toward  bringing  books  into  fashion  among  ladies  of  quality. 
The  stainless  purity  of  her  private  life,  and  the  strict  attention  which  she 
paid  to  her  religious  duties,  were  the  more  respectable,  because  she  was 
singularly  free  from  censoriousness,  and  discouraged  scandal  as  much  as 
vice.  .  .  .  Her  charities  were  munificent  and  judicious ;  and,  though  she 
made  no  ostentatious  display  of  them,  it  was  known  that  she  retrenched 
from  her  own  state  in  order  to  relieve  Protestants  whom  persecution  had 
driven  from  France  and  Ireland,  and  who  were  starving  in  the  garrets  of 
London.  So  amiable  was  her  conduct,  that  she  was  generally  spoken  of 
with  esteem  and  tenderness  by  the  most  respectable  of  those  who  disap- 
proved of  the  manner  in  which  she  had  been  raised  to  the  throne,  and  even 
of  those  who  refused  to  acknowledge  her  as  queen. 

The  same  eminent  critic  quoted  before  comments  as  follows: 
"The  history  is  universal,  and  not  broken.  It  comprehends  events 
of  every  kind,  and  treats  of  them  simultaneously.  Some  have 
related  the  history  of  races,  others  of  classes,  others  of  governments, 
others  of  sentiments,  ideas,  and  manners;  Macaulay  has  related 
all.  He  has  separated  nothing,  and  passed  nothing  by.  His  por- 
traits are  mingled  with  his  narrative.  Read  those  of  Danby, 
Nottingham,  Shrewsbury,  Howe,  during  the  account  of  a  cession, 
between  two  parliamentary  divisions.  Short  curious  anecdotes, 
domestic  details,  the  description  of  furniture,  intersect,  without 
disjointing,  the  record  of  a  war.  A  political  dissertation  precedes 
or  follows  the  relation  of  a  battle;  at  other  times  the  author  is  a 
tourist  or  a  psychologist  before  becoming  a  politician  or  a  tactician. 


MACAULAY.  333 


"  He  is  successively  an  economist,  a  literary  man,  a  publicist,  an 
artist,  an  historian,  a  biographer,  a  story-teller,  even  a  philosopher ; 
by  this  diversity  of  parts  he  imitates  the  diversity  of  human  life, 
and  presents  to  the  eyes,  heart,  mind,  all  the  faculties  of  man,  the 
complete  history  of  the  civilization  of  his  country. 

"  I  know  no  historian  who  has  a  surer,  better  furnished,  better 
regulated  memory.  When  he  is  relating  the  actions  of  a  man  or 
a  party,  he  sees  in  an  instant  all  the  events  of  his  history,  and  all 
the  maxims  of  his  conduct;  he  has  all  the  details  present;  he 
remembers  them  every  moment,  in  great  numbers.  No  one  has  so 
well  taught  or  known  history.  He  is  as  much  steeped  in  it  as  his 
personages.  .  .  .  No  one  explains  better,  or  so  much,  as  Macaulay. 
It  seems  as  if  he  were  making  a  wager  with  his  reader,  and  said  to 
him :  Be  as  absent  in  mind,  as  stupid,  as  ignorant  as  you  please; 
in  vain  you  will  be  absent  in  mind,  you  shall  listen  to  me;  in  vain 
you  will  be  stupid,  you  shall  understand ;  in  vain  you  will  be  igno- 
rant, you  shall  learn.  .  .  . 

"  He  proves  all  that  he  says,  with  astonishing  vigor  and  authority. 
We  are  almost  certain  never  to  go  astray  in  following  him.  If  he 
cites  a  witness,  he  begins  by  measuring  the  veracity  and  intelligence 
of  the  authors  quoted,  and  by  correcting  the  errors  they  may  have 
committed,  through  negligence  or  partiality.  If  he  pronounces  a 
judgment,  he  relies  on  the  most  certain  facts,  the  clearest  principles, 
the  simplest  and  most  logical  deductions.  If  he  develops  an  argu- 
ment, he  never  loses  himself  in  a  digression  ;  he  always  has  his  goal 
before  his  eyes ;  he  advances  towards  it  by  the  surest  and  straightest 
road.  If  he  rises  to  general  consideration,  he  mounts  step  by  step 
through  all  the  grades  of  generalization,  without  omitting  one;  he 
feels  the  ground  every  instant;  he  neither  adds  nor  subtracts  from 
facts;  he  desires,  at  the  cost  of  every  precaution  and  research,  to 
arrive  at  the  precise  truth.  He  knows  an  infinity  of  details  of  every 
kind ;  he  owns  a  great  number  of  philosophic  ideas  of  every  spe- 
cies ;  but  his  erudition  is  as  well  tempered  as  his  philosophy,  and 
both -constitute  a  coin  worthy  of  circulation,  amongst  all  thinking 
minds." 


HENRY   HALLAM. 


HENRY  HALLAM  was  born  at  Windsor,  in  the  year  1777.  He 
was  educated  at  Eton  and  Oxford.  On  completing  his  collegiate 
course  he  located  in  London,  where  before  many  years  he  won 
a  name  as  a  litterateur  and  as  a  philanthropist.  The  work  that 
brought  him  into  general  notice,  however,  was  his  View  of  the 
State  of  Europe  during  the  Middle  Ages, — i.  e.,  from  the  middle 
of  the  fifth  to  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century, — which  was  given 
to  the  public  in  1818.  Our  first  extract  from  this  work  shall 

be  the 

CHARACTER  OF  CHARLEMAGNE. 

The  epoch  made  by  Charlemagne  in  the  history  of  the  world,  the 
illustrious  families  which  prided  themselves  in  him  as  their  progenitor,  the 
very  legions  of  romance,  which  are  full  of  his  fabulous  exploits,  have  cast 
a  lustre  around  his  head,  and  testify  the  greatness  that  has  embodied  itself 
in  his  name.  None  indeed  of  Charlemagne's  wars  can  be  compared  with 
the  Saracenic  victory  of  Charles  Martel ;  but  that  was  a  contest  for  freedom, 
his  for  conquest ;  and  fame  is  more  partial  to  successful  aggression  than  to 
patriotic  resistance.  As  a  scholar,  his  acquisitions  were  probably  little 
superior  to  those  of  his  unrespected  son ;  and  in  several  points  of  view  the 
glory  of  Charlemagne  might  be  extenuated  by  an  analytical  dissection. 

But,  rejecting  a  mode  of  judging  equally  uncandid  and  fallacious,  we 
shall  find  that  he  possessed  in  everything  that  grandeur  of  conception  which 
distinguishes  extraordinary  minds.  Like  Alexander,  he  seemed  born  for 
universal  innovation :  in  a  life  restlessly  active,  we  see  him  reforming  the 
coinage,  and  establishing  the  legal  divisions  of  money ;  gathering  about 
him  the  learned  of  every  country  ;  founding  schools  and  collecting  libraries ; 
interfering,  but  with  the  tone  of  a  king,  in  religious  controversies ;  aiming, 
though  prematurely,  at  the  formation  of  a  naval  force ;  attempting,  for  the 
sake  of  commerce,  the  magnificent  enterprise  of  uniting  the  Rhine  and  the 
Danube ;  and  meditating  to  mold  the  discordant  codes  of  Roman  and  bar- 
barian laws  into  a  uniform  system. 

The  great  qualities  of  Charlemagne  were  indeed  alloyed  by  the  vices  of 
a  barbarian  and  a  conqueror.  Nine  wives,  whom  he  divorced  with  very 
little  ceremony,  attest  the  license  of  his  private  life,  which  his  temperance 
and  frugality  can  hardly  be  said  to  redeem.  Unsparing  of  blood,  though 
not  constitutionally  cruel,  and  Avholly  indifferent  to  the  means  which  his 
ambition  prescribed,  he  beheaded  in  one  day  four  thousand  Saxons ;  an  act 
of  atrocious  butchery,  after  which  his  persecuting  edicts,  pronouncing  the 
pain  of  death  against  those  who  refused  baptism,  or  even  who  ate  flesh 
during  Lent,  seem  scarcely  worthy  of  notice.  This  union  of  barbarous 

334 


HALL  AM.  335 


ferocity  with  elevated  views  of  national  improvement,  might  suggest  the 
parallel  of  Peter  the  Great.  But  the  degrading  habits  and  brute  violence 
of  the  Muscovite  place  him  at  an  immense  distance  from  the  restorer  of 
the  empire. 

A  strong  sympathy  for  intellectual  excellence  was  the  leading  character- 
istic of  Charlemagne,  and  this  undoubtedly  biased  him  in  the  chief  political 
error  of  his  conduct,  that  of  encouraging  the  power  and  pretensions  of  the 
hierarchy.  But,  perhaps,  his  greatest  eulogy  is  written  in  the  disgraces  of 
succeeding  times,  and  the  miseries  of  Europe.  He  stands  alone  like  a 
beacon  upon  a  waste,  or  a  rock  in  the  broad  ocean.  His  sceptre  was  as  the 
bow  of  Ulysses,  which  could  not  be  drawn  by  any  weaker  hand.  In  the 
dark  ages  of  European  history,  the  reign  of  Charlemagne  affords  a  solitary 
resting-place  between  two  long  periods  of  turbulence  and  ignominy,  deriv- 
ing the  advantages  of  contrast  both  from  that  of  the  preceding  dynasty  and 
of  a  posterity  for  whom  he  had  formed  an  empire  which  they  were  nu- 
Avorthy  and  unequal  to  maintain. 

Our  second  extract  from  the  same  work  shall  be 

ABOUT   TOURNAMENTS. 

The  kings  of  France  and  England  held  solemn  or  plenary  courts  at  the 
great  festivals,  or  at  other  times,  where  the  name  of  knight  was  always  a, 
title  to  admittance ;  and  the  masque  of  chivalry,  if  T  may  use  the  expres- 
sion, was  acted  in  pageants  and  ceremonies,  fantastical  enough  in  our  appre- 
hension, but  well  calculated  for  those  heated  understandings.  Here  the 
peacock  and  the  pheasant,  birds  of  high  fame  in  romance,  received  the 
homage  of  all  true  knights. 

The  most  singular  festival  of  this  kind  was  that  celebrated  by  Philip, 
duke  of  Burgundy,  in  1453.  In  the  midst  of  the  banquet  a  pageant  was 
introduced,  representing  the  calamitous  state  of  religion  in  consequence  of 
the  recent  capture  of  Constantinople.  This  was  followed  by  the  appearance 
of  a  pheasant,  which  was  laid  before  the  duke,  and  to  which  the  knights 
present  addressed  their  vows  to  undertake  a  crusade,  in  the  following  very 
characteristic  preamble :  I  swear  before  God  my  creator  in  the  first  place, 
and  the  glorious  Virgin  his  mother,  and  next  before  the  ladies  and  the 
pheasant. 

Tournaments  were  a  still  more  powerful  incentive  to  emulation.  These 
may  be  considered  to  have  arisen  about  the  middle  of  the  eleventh  century  ; 
for*  though  every  martial  people  have  found  diversion  in  representing  the 
image  of  war,  yet  the  name  of  tournaments,  and  the  laws  that  regulated 
them,  cannot  be  traced  any  higher.  Every  scenic  performance  of  modern 
times  must  be  tame  in  comparison  of  these  animating  combats. 

At  a  tournament,  the  space  enclosed  within  the  lists  was  surrounded  by 
sovereign  princes  and  their  noblest  barons,  by  knights  of  established 
renown,  and  all  that  rank  and  beauty  had  most  distinguished  among  the 
fair.  Covered  with  steel,  and  known  only  by  the  emblazoned  shield,  or  by 
the  favors  of  their  mistresses,  a  still  prouder  bearing,  the  combatants  rushed 
forward  to  a  strife  without  enmity,  but  not  without  danger.  Though  their 
weapons  Avere  pointless,  and  sometimes  only  of  Avood,  though  they  were 
bound  by  the  laws  of  tournaments  to  strike  only  upon  the  strong  armor  of 
the  trunk,  or,  as  it  Avas  called,  between  the  four  limbs,  those  impetuous  con- 
flicts often  terminated  in  Avounds  and  death. 


336  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


The  church  uttered  her  excommunications  in  vain  against  so  wanton  an 
exposure  to  peril ;  but  it  was  more  easy  for  her  to  excite  than  to  restrain 
that  martial  enthusiasm.  Victory  in  a  tournament  was  little  less  glorious, 
and  perhaps  at  the  moment  more  exquisitely  felt,  than  in  the  field ;  since 
no  battle  could  assemble  such  witnesses  of  valor.  "  Honor  to  the  sons  of 
the  brave,"  resounded  amid  the  din  of  martial  music  from  the  lips  of  the 
minstrels,  as  the  conqueror  advanced  to  receive  the  prize  from  his  queen  or 
his  mistress ;  while  the  surrounding  multitude  acknowledged  in  his  prow- 
ess of  that  day  an  augury  of  triumphs  that  might  in  more  serious  contests 
be  blended  with  those  of  his  country. 

Speaking  of  the  work  represented  by  the  preceding  extracts,  the 
"Edinburgh  Review"  remarks: 

"Mr.  Hallam  appears  to  have  bestowed  much  time  and  much 
reflection  on  his  subject.  ...  To  a  familiar  acquaintance  with  the 
early  chronicles  and  original  histories  of  the  Barbarians,  he  has 
added  a  diligent  examination  of  their  laws;  and  wherever  records 
throw  their  steady  and  certain  light  on  the  progress  of  events,  he 
has  consulted  them  with  care.  But  it  is  not  the  labor  and  industry 
employed  by  Mr.  Hallam  in  the  composition  of  this  work,  nor 
even  the  valuable  and  interesting  information  it  contains,  that 
•constitute  its  chief  or  peculiar  merit.  It  is  written  throughout 
with  a  spirit  of  freedom  and  liberality  that  do  credit  to  the  author. 
A  firm  but  temperate  love  of  liberty,  an  enlightened  but  cautious 
philosophy,  form  its  distinguished  excellence.  We  never  find  the 
author  attempting  to  palliate  injustice  or  excuse  oppression  :  and 
whenever  he  treats  of  popular  rights,  or  pronounces  upon  the  con- 
tentions of  subjects  with  their  sovereigns,  we  meet  with  a  freedom 
and  intrepidity  of  discussion  that  remind  us  of  better  times.  But, 
though  a  decided  enemy  to  the  encroachments  of  arbitrary  power, 
Mr.  Hallam  is  no  infatuated  admirer  of  ancient  turbulence  nor 
blind  apologist  of  popular  excesses.  If,  indeed,  there  is  any  quality 
of  his  work  that  merits  our  unqualified  approbation,  it  is  the  spirit 
of  fairness  and  impartiality  that  pervades  the  whole." 

About  nine  years  after  the  publication  of  the  foregoing  work, 
appeared  (1827)  our  author's  second  historical  production — The 
Constitutional  History  of  England  from  the  Accession  of  Henry  VII. 
to  the  Death  of  George  II.  Chapter  XVIII.  of  this  work  contains 
the  following  concise  and  comprehensive  exhibit  of 

THE  EARLY  STATE   OF  IRELAND. 

In  the  twelfth  century  it  is  evident  that  the  Irish  nation  had  made  far 
less  progress  in  the  road  of  improvement  than  any  other  of  Europe  in  circum- 
stances of  climate  and  position  so  little  unfavorable.  They  had  no  arts 
that  deserve  the  name,  nor  any  commerce,  their  best  line  of  sea-coast  being 
occupied  by  the  Norwegians.  They  had  no  fortified  towns,  nor  any  houses 


HA  LLA  M.  337 


or  castles  of  stone,  the  first  having  been  erected  at  Tuam  a  very  few  years 
before  the  invasion  of  Henry.  Their  conversion  to  Christianity,  indeed, 
and  the  multitude  of  cathedral  and  conventual  churches  erected  throughout 
the  island,  had  been  the  cause,  and  probably  the  sole  cause,  of  the  rise  of 
some  cities,  or  villages  with  that  name,  such  as  Armagh,  Cashel,  and  Trim ; 
but  neither  the  chiefs  nor  the  people  loved  to  be  confined  within  their 
precincts,  and  chose  rather  to  dwell  in  scattered  cabins  amid  the  free  soli- 
tude of  bogs  and  mountains. 

As  we  might  expect,  their  qualities  were  such  as  belong  to  man  by  his 
original  nature,  and  which  he  displays  in  all  parts  of  the  globe  where  the 
state  of  society  is  inartificial :  they  were  gay,  generous,  hospitable,  ardent 
in  attachment  and  hate,  credulous  of  falsehood,  prone  to  anger  and  violence, 
generally  crafty  and  cruel.  With  these  very  general  attributes  of  a  bar- 
barous people,  the  Irish  character  was  distinguished  by  a  peculiar  vivacity 
of  imagination,  an  enthusiasm  and  impetuosity  of  passion,  and  a  more  than 
ordinary  bias  toward  a  submissive  and  superstitious  spirit  in  religion. 

This  spirit  may  justly  be  traced,  in  a  great  measure,  to  the  virtues  and 
piety  of  the  early  preachers  of  the  Gospel  in  that  country.  Their  influ- 
ence, though  at  this  remote  age  and  with  our  imperfect  knowledge  it  may 
hardly  be  distinguishable  amid  the  licentiousness  and  ferocity  of  a  rude 
people,  was  necessarily  directed  to  counteract  those  vices,  and  cannot  have 
failed  to  mitigate  and  compensate  their  evil.  Jn  the  seventh  and  eighth 
centuries,  while  a  total  ignorance  seemed  to  overspread  the  face  of  Europe, 
the  monasteries  and  schools  of  Ireland  preserved,  in  the  best  manner  they 
could,  such  learning  as  had  survived  the  revolutions  of  the  Roman  world. 
But  the  learning  of  monasteries  had  never  much  effect  in  dispelling  the 
ignorance  of  the  laity ;  and,  indeed,  even  in  them,  it  had  decayed  long 
before  the  twelfth  century.  The  clergy  were  respected  and  numerous,  the 
bishops  alone  amounting  at  one  time  to  no  less  than  three  hundred ;  and  it 
has  been  maintained  by  our  most  learned  writers,  that  they  were  wholly 
independent  of  the  See  of  Rome  till,  a  little  before  the  English  invasion, 
one  of  their  primates  thought  fit  to  solicit  the  pall  from  thence  on  his  con- 
secration, according  to  the  discipline  long  practiced  in  our  Western  churches. 

It  will  be  readily  perceived  that  the  government  of  Ireland  must  have, 
been  almost  entirely  aristocratical,  and,  though  not  strictly  feudal,  not  very 
unlike  that  of  the  feudal  confederacies  in  France  during  the  ninth  and 
tenth  centuries.  It  was,  perhaps,  still  more  oppressive.  The  ancient  con- 
dition of  the  common  people  of  Ireland,  says  Sir  James  Ware,  was  very 
little  different  from  slavery.  Unless  we  believe  this  condition  to  have  been 
greatly  deteriorated  under  the  rule  of  their  native  chieftains  after  the  Eng- 
lish settlement,  for  which  there  seems  no  good  reason,  we  must  give  little 
credit  to  the  fanciful  pictures  of  prosperity  and  happiness  in  that  period 
of  aboriginal  independence  which  the  Irish,  in  their  discontent  with  later 
times,  have  been  apt  to  draw. 

They  had,  no  doubt,  like  all  other  nations,  good  and  wise  princes,  as 
well  as  tyrants  and  usurpers ;  but  we  find  by  their  annals  that,  out  of  two 
hundred  ancient  kings,  of  whom  some  brief  memorials  are  recorded,  not 
more  than  thirty  came  to  a  natural  death,  while  for  the  later  period,  the 
oppression  of  the  Irish  chieftains,  and  of  those  degenerate  English  who 
trod  in  their  steps,  and  emulated  the  vices  they  should  have  restrained,  is 
the  one  constant  theme  of  history.  Their  exactions  kept  the  peasants  in 
hopeless  poverty,  their  tyranny  in  perpetual  fear.  The  chief  claimed  a 
right  of  taking  from  his  tenants  provisions  for  his  own  use  at  discretion,  or 
29  W 


338  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

of  sojourning  in  their  houses.  This  was  called  coshery,  and  is  somewhat 
analogous  to  the  royal  prerogative  of  purveyance.  A  still  more  terrible 
oppression  was  the  quartering  of  the  lords'  soldiers  on  the  people,  some- 
times mitigated  by  a  composition,  called  by  the  Irish  bonaght ;  for  the 
perpetual  warfare  of  these  petty  chieftains  had  given  rise  to  the  employ- 
ment of  mercenary  troops,  partly  natives,  partly  from  Scotland,  known  by 
the  uncouth  name  of  Kerns  and  Gallowgl asses,  who  proved  the  scourge  of 
Ireland  down  to  its  subjugation  by  Elizabeth. 

This  unusually  backward  condition  of  society  furnished  but  an  inauspi- 
cious presage  for  the  future.  Yet  we  may  be  led  by  the  analogy  of  other 
countries  to  think  it  probable  that,  if  Ireland  had  not  tempted  the  cupidity 
of  her  neighbors,  there  would  have  arisen  in  the  course  of  time  some  Egbert 
or  Harold  Harfager  to  consolidate  the  provincial  kingdoms  into  one  heredi- 
tary monarchy,  which,  by  the  adoption  of  better  laws,  the  increase  of  com- 
merce, and  a  frequent  intercourse  with  the  chief  courts  *of  Europe,  might 
have  taken  as  respectable  a  station  as  that  of  Scotland  in  the  Common- 
wealth of  Christendom.  If  the  two  islands  had  afterward  become  incorpo- 
rated through  intermarriage  of  their  sovereigns,  as  would  very  likely  have 
taken  place,  it  might  have  been  on  such  conditions. of  equality  as  Ireland, 
till  lately,  has  never  known,  and  certainly  without  that  long  tragedy  of 
crime  and  misfortune  which  her  annals  unfold. 

In  an  elaborate  and  able  review  of  the  Constitutional  History, 
written  in  1828,  Macaulay  observes  :  "  Mr.  Hallam  is,  on  the  whole, 
far  better  qualified  than  any  other  writer  of  our  time  for  the  office 
which  he  has  undertaken.  He  has  great  industry  and  great  acute- 
ness.  His  knowledge  is  extensive,  various,  and  profound.  His 
mind  is  equally  distinguished  by  the  amplitude  of  its  grasp  and  by 
the  delicacy  of  its  tact.  His  speculations  have  none  of  that  vague- 
ness which  is  the  common  fault  of  political  philosophy.  On  the 
contrary,  they  are  strikingly  practical.  They  teach  us  not  only  the 
general  rule,  but  the  mode  of  applying  it  to  solve  particular  cases. 

"The  style  is  sometimes  harsh,  and  sometimes  obscure.  We 
have  also  here  and  there  remarked  a  little  of  that  unpleasant  trick 
which  Gibbon  brought  into  fashion — the  trick,  we  mean,  of  narrat- 
ing by  implication  and  allusion.  Mr.  Hallam,  however,  has  an 
excuse  which  Gibbon  had  not.  His  work  is  designed  for  readers 
who  are  already  acquainted  with  the  ordinary  books  on  English 
history,  and  who  can  therefore  unriddle  these  little  enigmas  with- 
out difficulty. 

"  His  work  is  eminently  judicial.  Its  whole  spirit  is  that  of  the 
bench,  not  of  the  bar.  He  sums  up  with  a  calm,  steady  impar- 
tiality, turning  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  glossing  over 
nothing,  exaggerating  nothing,  while  the  advocates  on  both  sides 
are  alternately  biting  their  lips  to  hear  their  conflicting  misstate- 
ments  and  sophisms  exposed.  On  a  general  survey,  we  do  not 
scruple  to  pronounce  the  Constitutional  History  the  most  impartial 
book  that  we  ever  read.  .  .  . 


HALL  AM.  339 


"  We  should  probably  like  Mr.  Hallam's  book  more,  if  instead  of 
pointing  out,  with  strict  fidelity,  the  bright  points  and  the  dark 
spots  of  both  parties,  he  had  exerted  himself  to  whitewash  the  one 
and  to  blacken  the  other.  But  we  should  certainly  prize  it  far  less. 
Eulogy  and  invective  may  be  had  for  the  asking.  But  for  cold, 
rigid  justice — the  one  weight  and  the  one  measure — we  know  not 
where  else  we  can  look." 

As  a  recognition  of  the  rare  merit  of  the  two  works  already  men- 
tioned, Hallani  had  bestowed  on  him,  in  1830,  one  of  the  two  valu- 
able medals  instituted  by  George  IV.  for  eminence  in  historical 
composition.  In  1837-39  appeared  the  third  and  last  great  pro- 
duction of  our  author — Introduction  to  the  Literature  of  Europe,  in  the 
Fifteenth,  Sixteenth,  and  Seventeenth  Centuries.  Volume  LXXII.  of 
the  "Edinburgh  Review"  pronounces  this  "The  most  important 
contribution  to  literary  history  which  English  libraries  have 
received  for  many  years.  It  has  a  dry  and  austere  style,  uni- 
formly clear,  indeed,  and  English,  but  sometimes  chastised  to  a 
degree  of  tameness,  sometimes,  though  not  often,  laboriously  figura- 
tive, and  loaded  with  rather  heavy  ornament.  But  most  assuredly 
the  reader  who  does  not  employ  it  merely  to  fill  up  the  leisure  of 
a  few  hours,  but  consults  it  for  guidance,  and  refers  to  its  author- 
ity, will  never  use  it  without  an  augmented  sense  of  its  value,  and 
respect  for  its  author.  He  will  be  struck  with  the  modest  simplic- 
ity with  which  its  stores  of  very  extensive  erudition  are  displayed. 
He  will  be  struck  with  an  honesty,  even  in  the  mere  conduct  of 
the  work,  rarely  found  in  publications  pretending  to  anything  like 
the  same  amount  of  research." 

Hallam  died  in  January,  1859. 


WILLIAM   COWPER. 


0  poets !   from  a  maniac's  tongue 

Was  poured  the  deathless  singing! 
0  Christians !    at  your  cross  of  hope 

A  hopeless  hand  was  clinging! 
0  men !   this  man,  in  brotherhood, 

Your  weary  paths  beguiling, 
Groaned  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace, 

And  died  while  ye  were  smiling. 

— MRS.  BKOWNING. 

WILLIAM  COWPER  was  born  on  the  15th  of  November,  1731, 
at  Great  Berkhampstead,  Hertfordshire,  of  which  place  his 
father  was  rector.  At  the  age  of  six  he  lost  his  mother.  "  I 
can  truly  say,"  said  Cowper,  nearly  fifty  years  after  her  death, 
"  that  not  a  week  passes  (perhaps  I  might  with  equal  veracity 
say  a  day)  in  which  I  do  not  think  of  her  :  such  was  the  impres- 
sion her  tenderness  made  upon  me,  though  the  opportunity  she 
had  for  showing  it  was  so  short."  We  may  no  longer  doubt  the 
genuineness  of  his  profession,  when  we  read  the  verses  he  wrote, 
a  little  later,  on  the  receipt  of  his  mother's  picture  out  of  Nor- 
folk, the  gift  of  a  cousin  ;  verses  which  Hazlitt  has  declared  to 
be  "  some  of  the  most  pathetic  that  ever  were  written." 

O  that  those  lips  had  language!    Life  has  pass'd 

With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 

Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 

The  same,  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me ; 

Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 

"  Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away ! " 

The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 

(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 

The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 

To  quench  it)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 

Faithful  remembrance  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here ! 

340 


COWPER.  341 


Who  bidd'st  me  honor  with  an  artless  song, 

Affectionate,  a  Mother  lost  so  long. 

I  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own : 

And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 

Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, 

Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 

A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 

My  Mother!   when  I  learn'd  that  thou  wast  dead, 

Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed  ? 

Hover'd  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, 

Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun  ? 

Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss ; 

Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 

Ah,  that  maternal  smile !   it  answers — Yes. 

I  heard  the  bell  toll'd  on  thy  burial  day, 

I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 

And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 

A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu ! 

But  was  it  such? — It  was. — Where  thou  art  gone, 

Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 

May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 

The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more! 

Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 

Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 

What  ardently  I  wish'd,  I  long  believed, 

And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived. 

By  expectation  every  day  beguiled, 

Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 

Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 

Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 

I  learn'd  at  last  submission  to  my  lot ; 

But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapt 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet-capt, 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known, 
That  once  we  call'd  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Shortlived  possession!  but  the  record  fair, 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  has  effaced 
29* 


342  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 

Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 

That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid ; 

Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 

The  biscuit,  or  confectionery  plum ; 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestow'd 

By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glow'd ; 

All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all, 

Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 

Ne'er  roughen'd  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks 

That  humor,  interposed,  too  often  makes ; 

All  this  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 

And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 

Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 

Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may ; 

Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 

Not  scorn'd  in  Heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours, 

When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers, 

The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 

I  prick'd  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 

(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 

Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head,  and  smile,) 

Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 

Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them  here  ? 

I  would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 

Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. 

But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 

So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much, 

That  I  should  ill  requite  thee,  to  constrain 

Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast 

(The  storms  all  weather'd  and  the  ocean  cross'd) 

Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-haven'd  isle, 

Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 

There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods  that  show 

Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 

While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 

Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay  ; 

So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !  hast  reach'd  the  shore 

"  Where  tempests  never  beat,  nor  billows  roar," 

And  thy  loved  Consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 

Of  life  long  since  has  anchor'd  by  thy  side. 

But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 

Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distress'd — 


COWPER. 


Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-toss'd, 
Sails  ripp'd,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost, 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 

Yet  O  the  thought,  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he ! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not,  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth ; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise — 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies. 
And  now,  farewell — Time  unrevoked  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wish'd  is  done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again ; 
To  have  renew'd  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine; 
And,  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 

A  few  years  after  his  mother's  death  a  complaint  in  his  eyes, 
which  threatened  blindness,  caused  his  removal  to  the  house  of  a 
female  oculist  in  London,  from  whence,  at  the  age  of  ten,  he  was 
sent  to  Westminster  school.  About  seven  years  were  spent  here, 
our  poet  leaving  the  school  with  a  considerable  classical  reputa- 
tion to  enter  on  the  study  of  law. 

In  1752  he  took  chambers  in  the  Temple,  but  during  the  eleven 
years  of  his  occupancy  neither  got,  nor  sought  to  get,  any  practice. 
This  professional  failure  must  be  attributed  for  the  most  part  to  a 
morbid  sensitiveness  and  constitutional  melancholy,  which  from, 
early  youth  had  verily  dominated  over  him — the  same  that  the 
bare  thought  of  appearing,  a  few  years  later,  at  the  bar  of  the 
House  of  Lords  and  taking  the  oath  necessary  to  qualify  him  as 
Clerk  of  the  Journals,  excited  into  insanity.  In  this  sad  state  he 
remained  for  a  year  and  a  half  in  charge  of  Doctor  Cotton  of  St. 
Alban's;  when,  recovering  his  reason,  he  removed  to  Huntingdon, 
and  there  formed  the  invaluable  acquaintance  of  Rev.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Unwin.  Of  the  latter  he  wrote,  in  March,  1766,  "  The  lady  in 
whose  house  I  live  is  so  excellent  a  person,  and  regards  me  with  a 
friendship  so  truly  Christian,  that  I  could  almost  fancy  my  mother 
restored  to  life  again,  to  compensate  me  for  all  the  friends  I  have 
lost  and  all  my  connexions  broken." 

With  this  motherly  woman  he  removed,  after  her  husband's 


844  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

death,  to  Olney;  and  here  he  contracted  another  most  fortunate 
friendship,  that  of  Rev.  John  Newton.  But  alas!  his  mind, which 
had  been  tolerably  free  from  annoyance  for  eight  years,  now 
(1773)  exhibited  a  return  of  its  former  derangement.  A  conviction 
that  his  soul  was  excluded  from  the  reach  of  Divine  mercy  took 
possession  of  him,  and  despite  the  expostulations  of  esteemed 
friends,  held  him  in  its  gloomy  power  more  or  less  completely  to 
the  end  of  his  life. 

His  first  volume  of  poems,  including  The  Progress  of  Error,  Truth, 
Table-Talk,  and  Expostulation,  was  published  in  1781,  when  our 
author  was  fifty  years  of  age.  Its  appearance  was  no  doubt  largely 
due  to  the  encouraging  influence  Mrs.  Unwin  exerted  over  the 
poet.  Indeed,  the  tender,  sympathetic,  and  sunny  companionship 
of  women  seeni8  to  have  been  a  vital  and  salutary  element  of 
Cowper's  poetic  life ;  for  it  is  pretty  well  authenticated  that  to  the 
suggestions  of  Lady  Austen,  Lady  Hesketh,  Lady  Throckmorton, 
and  Mrs.  Unwin,  are  to  be  traced  the  themes  at  least  of  many  of 
his  happiest  creations,  such,  for  instance,  as  the  Task,  TJie  History 
of  John  Gilpin,  and  his  translation  of  Homer. 

The  Task  was  published  in  1785.  From  this  poem — Book  I.— 
The  Sofa — we  excerpt  the  following  passages,  descriptive  of  a 
summer  landscape. 

Thou  knowest  my  praise  of  nature  most  sincere, 

And  that  my  raptures  are  not  conjured  up 

To  serve  occasions  of  poetic  pomp, 

But  genuine,  and  art  partner  of  them  all. 

How  oft,  upon  yon  eminence,  our  pace 

Has  slacken'd  to  a  pause,  and  we  have  borne 

The  ruffling  wind,  scarce  conscious  that  it  blew, 

While  Admiration,  feeding  at  the  eye, 

And  still  unsated,  dwelt  upon  the  scene. 

Thence  with  what  pleasure  have  we  just  discern'd 

The  distant  plough  slow  moving,  and  beside 

His  laboring  team,  that  swerved  not  from  the  track, 

The  sturdy  swain,  diminish'd  to  a  boy ! 

Here  Ouse,  slow  winding  through  a  level  plain 

Of  spacious  meads,  with  cattle  sprinkled  o'er, 

Conducts  the  eye  along  his  sinuous  course, 

Delighted. 

There,  fast  rooted  in  their  bank, 
Stand,  never  overlook'd,  our  favorite  elms, 
That  screen  the  herdsman's  solitary  hut ; 
While  far  beyond,  and  overthwart  the  stream, 
That  as  with  molten  glass  inlays  the  vale, 


COWPER.  345 


The  sloping  land  recedes  into  the  clouds; 
Displaying  on  its  varied  side  the  grace 
Of  hedge-row  beauties  numberless,  square  tower, 
Tall  spire,  from  which  the  sound  of  cheerful  bells 
Just  undulates  upon  the  listening  ear, 
Groves,  heaths,  and  smoking  villages,  remote. 
Scenes  must  be  beautiful,  which,  daily  view'd, 
Please  daily,  and  whose  novelty  survives 
Long  knowledge  a*nd  the  scrutiny  of  years : 
Praise  justly  due  to  those  that  I  describe. 

Nor  rural  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds 
Exhilarate  the  spirit,  and  restore 
The  tone  of  languid  Nature.    Mighty  winds, 
That  sweep  the  skirt  of  some  far-spreading  wood 
Of  ancient  growth,  make  music  not  unlike 
The  dash  of  Ocean  on  his  winding  shore, 
And  lull  the  spirit,  while  they  fill  the  mind ; 
Unnumber'd  branches  waving  in  the  blast, 
And  all  their  leaves  fast  fluttering,  all  at  once. 
Nor  less  composure  waits  upon  the  roar 
Of  distant  floods,  or  on  the  softer  voice 
Of  neighboring  fountain,  or  of  rills  that  slip 
Through  the  cle'ft  rock,  and,  chiming  as  they  fall 
Upon  loose  pebbles,  lose  themselves  at  length 
In  matted  grass,  that  with  a  livelier  green 
Betrays  the  secret  of  their  silent  course. 

Nature  inanimate  employs  sweet  sounds, 
But  animated  Nature  sweeter  still, 
To  soothe  and  satisfy  the  human  ear. 
Ten  thousand  warblers  cheer  the  day,  and  one 
The  livelong  night :  nor  these  alone,  whose  notes 
Nice-finger'd  Art  must  emulate  in  vain, 
But  cawing  rooks,  and  kites  that  swim  sublime 
In  still  repeated  circles,  screaming  loud, 
The  jay,  the  pie,  and  e'en  the  boding  owl, 
That  hails  the  rising  moon,  have  charms  for  me. 
Sounds  inharmonious  in  themselves  and  harsh, 
Yet  heard  in  sc-enes  where  peace  for  ever  reigns, 
And  only  there,  please  highly  for  their  sake. 

And  now,  turning  the  glass  a  little,  we  come  upon  a  winter 
scene. 

O  Winter,  ruler  of  the  inverted  year, 
Thy  scatter'd  hair  with  sleet-like  ashes  fill'd, 


346  Myl.Vf7.lL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Thy  breath  congeal'd  upon  thy  lips,  thy  cheeks 

Fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other  snows 

Than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrapp'd  in  clouds, 

A  leafless  branch  thy  scepter,  and  thy  throne 

A  sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels, 

But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slippery  way ; 

I  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem'st, 

And  dreaded  as  thou  art!    Thou  hold'st  the  sun 

A  prisoner  in  the  yet  undawning  East, 

Shortening  his  journey  between  morn  and  noon, 

And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 

Down  to  the  rosy  West ;  but  kindly  still 

Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 

Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease, 

And  gathering,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group 

The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought, 

Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and  its  cares. 

I  crown  thee  King  of  intimate  delights, 
Fireside  enjoyments,  home-born  happiness, 
And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturb'd  retirement,  and  the  hours 
Of  long  uninterrupted  evening  know. 
No  rattling  wheels  stop  short  before  these  gates; 
No  powder'd  pest,  proficient  in  the  art 
Of  sounding  an  alarm,  assaults  these  doors 
Till  the  street  rings;  no  stationary  steeds 
Cough  their  own  knell,  while,  heedless  of  the  sound, 
The  silent  circle  fan  themselves,  and  quake: 
But  here  the  needle  plies  its  busy  task, 
The  pattern  grows,  the  well-depicted  flower, 
Wrought  patiently  into  the  snowy  lawn, 
Unfolds  its  bosom ;  buds,  and  leaves,  and  sprigs, 
And  curling  tendrils,  gracefully  disposed, 
Follow  the  nimble  finger  of  the  fair ; 
A  wreath,  that  cannot  fade,  or  flowers,  that  blow 
With  most  success  when  all  besides  decay. 

The  Poet's  or  Historian's  page,  by  one 
Made  vocal  for  the  amusement  of  the  rest ; 
The  sprightly  lyre,  whose  treasure  of  sweet  sounds 
The  touch  from  many  a  trembling  chord  shakes  out ; 
And  the  clear  voice,  symphonious,  yet  distinct, 
And  in  the  charming  strife  triumphant  still, 
Beguile  the  night,  and  set  a  keener  edge 
On  female  industry :  the  threaded  steel 
Flies  swiftly,  and  unfelt  the  task  proceeds. 


CO  WPER.  347 


The  volume  closed,  the  customary  rites 
Of  the  last  meal  commence.    A  Roman  meal ; 
•    .        Such  as  the  mistress  of  the  world  once  found 
Delicious,  when  her  patriots  of  high  note, 
Perhaps  by  moonlight,  at  their  humble  doors, 
And  under  an  old  oak's  domestic  shade, 
Enjoy'd,  spare  feast !  a  radish  and  an  egg. 

Discourse  ensues,  not  trivial,  yet  not  dull, 
Nor  such  as  with  a  frown  forbids  the  play 
Of  fancy,  or  proscribes  the  sound  of  mirth : 
Nor  do  we  madly,  like  an  impious  world, 
Who  deem,  religion  frenzy,  and  the  God 
That  made  them  an  intruder  on  their  joys, 
Start  at  His  awful  name,  or  deem  His  praise 
A  jarring  note.    Themes  of  a  graver  tone, 
Exciting  oft  our  gratitude  and  love, 
While  we  retrace  with  Memory's  wand, 
That  calls  the  past  to  our  exact  review, 
The  dangers  we  have  'scaped,  the  broken  snare, 
The  disappointed  foe,  deliverance  found 
Unlook'd  for,  life  preserved,  and  peace  restored, 
Fruits  of  omnipotent  eternal  love. 

0  evenings  worthy  of  the  gods !  exclaim'd 
The  Sabine  Bard.    O  evenings,  I  reply, 
More  to  be  prized  and  coveted  than  yours, 
As  more  illumined,  and  with  nobler  truths, 
That  I,  and  mine,  and  those  we  love  enjoy. 

Next  let  us  listen  to  "  The  Timepiece,"  as  it  sublimely  meas- 
ures otf  for  us  the  following  eloquent  satire  : 

Would  I  describe  a  preacher,  such  as  Paul, 
Were  he  on  earth,  would  hear,  approve,  and  own. 
Paul  should  himself  direct  me.     I  would  trace 
His  master-strokes,  and  draw  from  his  design. 

1  would  express  him  simple,  grave,  sincere ; 
In  doctrine  uncorrupt;  in  language  plain, 
And  plain  in  manner ;  decent,  solemn,  chaste, 
And  natural  in  gesture ;  much  impress'd 
Himself,  as  conscious  of  his  awful  charge, 
And  anxious  mainly  that  the  flock  he  feeds 
May  feel  it  too ;  affectionate  in  look, 

And  tender  in  address,  as  well  becomes 

A  messenger  of  grace  to  guilty  men. 

Behold  the  picture ! — Is  it  like  ? — Like  whom  ?  • 


348  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


The  things  that  mount  the"  rostrum  with  a  skip, 
And  then  skip  down  again;   pronounce  a  text, 
Cry — hem ;  and,  reading  what  they  never  wrote 
Just  fifteen  minutes,  huddle  up  their  work, 
And  with  a  well-bred  whisper  close  the  scene ! 

In  man  or  woman,  but  far  most  in  man, 
And  most  of  all  in  man  that  ministers 
And  serves  the  altar,  in  my  soul  I  loathe 
All  affectation.     'Tis  my  perfect  scorn ; 
Object  of  my  implacable  disgust. 
What ! — will  a  man  play  tricks,  will  he  indulge 
A  silly,  fond  conceit,  of  his  fair  form, 
And  just  proportion,  fashionable  mien, 
And  pretty  face,  in  presence  of  his  God  ? 
Or  will  he  seek  to  dazzle  me  with  tropes, 
As  with  the  diamond  on  his  lily  hand, 
And  play  his  brilliant  parts  before  my  eyes, 
When  I  am  hungry  for  the  bread  of  life? 
He  mocks  his  Maker,  prostitutes  and  shames 
His  noble  office,  and,  instead  of  truth, 
Displaying  his  own  beauty,  starves  his  flock. 
Therefore,  avaunt  all  attitude,  and  stare, 
And  start  theatric,  practiced  at  the  glass ! 
I  seek  divine  simplicity  in  him 
Who  handles  things  divine;  and  all  besides, 
Though  learn'd  with  labor,  and  though  much  admired 
By  curious  eyes  and  judgments  ill-inform'd, 
To  me  is  odious  as  the  nasal  twang 
Heard  at  conventicle,  where  worthy  men, 
Misled  by  custom,  strain  celestial  themes 
Through  the  press'd  nostril,  spectacle-bestrid. 

Some,  decent  in  demeanor  while  they  preach, 
That  task  perform'd,  relapse  into  themselves ; 
And,  having  spoken  wisely,  at  the  close 
Grow  wanton,  and  give  proof  to  every  eye, 
Whoe'er  was  edified,  themselves  were  not! 
Forth  comes  the  pocket-mirror. — First  we  stroke 
An  eyebrow ;  next  compose  a  straggling  lock ; 
Then,  with  an  air  most  gracefully  perform'd, 
Fall  back  into  our  seat,  extend  an  arm, 
And  lay  it  at  its  ease  with  gentle  care, 
With  handkerchief  in  hand  depending  low: 
The  better  hand,  more  busy,  gives  the  nose 
Its  bergamot,  or  aids  the  indebted  eye 


COWPER.  349 


With  opera-glass,  to  watch  the  moving  scene, 

And  recognise  the  slow-retiring  fair. — 

Now,  this  is  fulsome,  and  offends  me  more 

Than  in  a  churchman  slovenly  neglect 

And  rustic  coarseness  would.    A  heavenly  mind 

May  be  indifferent  to  her  house  of  clay, 

And  slight  the  hovel  as  beneath  her  care; 

But  how  a  body  so  fantastic,  trim, 

And  quaint,  in  its  deportment  and  attire, 

Can  lodge  a  heavenly  mind — demands  a  doubt. 

He  that  negotiates  between  God  and  man, 
As  God's  ambassador,  the  grand  concerns 
Of  judgment  and  of  mercy,  should  beware 
Of  lightness  in  his  speech.    Tis  pitiful 
To  court  a  grin,  when  you  should  woo  a  soul. 
To  break  a  jest,  when  pity  would  inspire 
Pathetic  exhortation ;  and  to  address 
The  skittish  fancy  with  facetious  tales, 
When  sent  with  God's  commission  to  the  heart! 
So  did  not  Paul.    Direct  me  to  a  quip 
Or  merry  turn  in  all  he  ever  wrote, 
And  I  consent  you  take  it  for  your  text, 
Your  only  one,  till  sides  and  benches  fail. 
No !  he  was  serious  in  a  serious  cause, 
And  understood  too  well  the  weighty  terms 
That  he  had  ta'en  in  charge.    He  would  not  stoop 
To  conquer  those,  by  jocular  exploits, 
Whom  truth  and  soberness  assailed  in  vain. 

A  second  volume  of  poems,  including  Tirocinium ;  or,  A  Review 
of  Schools,  was  published  in  1784.  The  translation  of  Homer  was 
completed  and  published  by  subscription  in  1791.  Cowper  next 
undertook,  in  conjunction  with  his  friend  William  Hayley,  an 
edition  of  Milton,  which  work,  however,  was  never  completed. 
In  1794  a  pension  of  three  hundred  pounds  was  granted  him  by 
government. 

The  remainder  of  our  poet's  life  was  more  than  usually  character- 
ized by  mental  despondency  and  torturing  fancies.  In  its  few  lucid 
intervals  he  was  occupied  with  a  revision  of  his  translation  of 
Homer,  with  translating  Greek  epigrams,  and  with  composing  a  few 
short  Latin  and  English  poems — the  "  Cast-away  "  being  the  last 
of  his  original  verses.  The  death  of  his  devoted  friend,  Mrs.  Unwin, 
in  1796,  proved  the  removal  of  the  last  of  the  few  objects  he  had 
ever  considered  life  worth  living  for,  and  he  rapidly  sank  into  a 
state  of  immitigable  despondency,  dying  on -the  25th  of  April,  1800. 
30 


350  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

As   an  example   of  an  exceptional  style  of  composition  with 
Cowper,  we  cite  the 

REPORT  OF  AN  ADJUDGED   CASE, 
NOT    TO    BE    FOUND    IN    ANY    OF    THE    BOOKS. 

Between  Nose  and  Eyes  a  strange  contest  arose, 

The  spectacles  set  them  unhappily  wrong ; 
The  point  in  dispute  was,  as  all  the  world  knows, 

To  which  the  said  spectacles  ought  to  belong. 

So  Tongue  was  the  lawyer,  and  argued  the  cause 
With  a  great  deal  of  skill,  and  a  wig  full  of  learning; 

While  chief  baron  Ear  sat  to  balance  the  laws, 
So  famed  for  his  talent  in  nicely  discerning. 

In  behalf  of  the  Nose  it  will  quickly  appear, 

And  your  Lordship,  he  said,  will  undoubtedly  find, 

That  the  Nose  has  had  spectacles  always  in  wear, 
Which  amounts  to  possession,  time  out  of  mind. 

Then  holding  the  spectacles  up  to  the  court, — 

Your  Lordship  observes  they  are  made  with  a  straddle, 

As  wide  as  the  ridge  of  the  Nose  is ;  in  short, 
Designed  to  sit  close  to  it,  just  like  a  saddle. 

Again,  would  your  Lordship  a  moment  suppose 
('Tis  a  case  that  has  happen'd,  and  may  be  again,) 

That  the  visage  or  countenance  had  not  a  Nose, 

Pray  who  would,  or  who  could,  wear  spectacles  then  ? 

On  the  whole  it  appears,  and  my  argument  shows, 
With  a  reasoning  the  court  will  never  condemn, 

That  the  spectacles  plainly  were  made  for  the  Nose, 
And  the  Nose  was  as  plainly  intended  for  them. 

Then  shifting  his  side  (as  a  lawyer  knows  how,) 

He  pleaded  again  in  behalf  of  the  Eyes ; 
But  what  were  his  arguments  few  people  know, 

For  the  court  did  not  think  they  were  equally  wise. 

So  his  Lordship  decreed,  with  a  grave  solemn  tone, 

Decisive  and  clear,  without  one  if  or  but — 
That,  whenever  the  Nose  put  his  spectacles  on, 

By  daylight  or  candlelight — Eyes  should  be  shut ! 

Our  concluding  extract  will  serve  as  a  transcript  of  Cowper's 
prevailing  state  of  mind  and  thought : 


COW  PER.  351 


THE   SHRUBBERY. 

Oh,  happy  shades — to  me  unblest ! 

Friendly  to  peace,  but  not  to  me !  \ 
How  ill  the  scene  that  offers  rest, 

And  heart  that  cannot  rest,  agree ! 

This  glassy  stream,  that  spreading  pine, 
Those  alders  quivering  to  the  breeze, 

Might  soothe  a  soul  less  hurt  than  mine, 
And  please,  if  anything  could  please. 

But  fix'd  unalterable  Care 

Forgoes  not  what  she  feels  within ; 
Shows  the  same  sadness  everywhere, 

And  slights  the  season  and  the  scene. 

For  all  that  pleased  in  wood  or  lawn, 

While  Peace  possess'd  these  silent  bowers 

Her  animating  smile  withdrawn, 
Has  lost  its  beauties  and  its  powers. 

The  saint  or  moralist  should  tread 
This  moss-grown  alley,  musing,  slow ; 

They  seek  like  me  the  secret  shade, 
But  not  like  me  to  nourish  woe! 

Me  fruitful  scenes  and  prospects  waste 

Alike  admonish  not  to  roam  ; 
These  tell  me  of  enjoyments  past, 

And  those  of  sorrows  yet  to  come. 

"The  great  merit  of  this  writer  appears  to  us  to  consist  in  the 
boldness  and  originality  of  his  composition,  and  in  the  fortunate 
audacity  with  which  he  has  carried  the  dominion  of  poetry  into" 
regions  that  had  been  considered  as  inaccessible  to  her  ambition. 
Cowper  was  one  of  the  first  who  reclaimed  the  natural  liberty  of 
invention,  and  walked  abroad  in  the  open  field  of  observation  as 
freely  as  those  by  whom  it  was  originally  trodden.  He  passed  from 
the  imitation  of  poets  to  the  imitation  of  nature,  and  ventured 
boldly  upon  the  representation  of  objects  that  had  not  been  sancti- 
fied by  the  description  of  any  of  his  predecessors.  In  the  ordinary 
occupations  and  duties  of  domestic  life,  and  the  consequences  of 
modern  manners,  in  the  common  scenery  of  a  rustic  situation,  and 
the  obvious  contemplation  of  our  public  institutions,  he  has  found 
a  multitude  of  subjects  for  ridicule  and  reflection,  for  pathetic  and 
picturesque  description,  for  moral  declamation,  and  devotional  rap- 


352  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ture,  that   would  have  been  looked  upon   with   disdain,  or  with 
despair,  by  most  of  our  poetical  adventurers. 

"He  took  as  wide  a  range  in  language,  too,  as  in  matter;  and, 
shaking  off  the  tawdry  incumbrance  of  that  poetical  diction  which 
had  nearly  reduced  the  art  to  the  skilful  collocation  of  a  set  of  con- 
ventional phrases,  he  made  no  scruple  to  set  down  in  verse  every 
expression  that  would  have  been  admitted  in  prose,  and  to  take 
advantage  of  all  the  varieties  with  which  our  language  could  supply 
him. 

"  But,  in  disdaining  to  follow  the  footsteps  of  others,  he  has  fre- 
quently mistaken  the  way,  and  has  been  exasperated,  by  their 
blunders,  to  rush  into  opposite  extremes.  In  his  contempt  for  their 
scrupulous  selection  of  topics,  he  has  introduced  some  that  are  un- 
questionably low  and  uninteresting ;  and  in  his  zeal  to  strip  off  the 
tinsel  and  embroidery  of  their  language,  he  has  sometimes  torn  it 
into  terrible  rents  and  beggarly  tatters.  He  is  a  great  master  of 
English,  and  evidently  values  himself  upon  his  skill  and  facility  in 
the  application  of  rich  and  diversified  idioms :  but  he  has  indulged 
himself  in  this  exercise  a  little  too  fondly,  and  has  degraded  some 
grave  and  animated  passages  by  the  unlucky  introduction  of  expres- 
sions unquestionably  too  colloquial  and  familiar."  * 

*  Francis  Jeffrey  in  Edinburgh  Review. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


The  lark  of  Scotia's  morning  sky ! 

Whose  voice  may  sing  his  praises? 
With  heaven's  own  sunlight  in  his  eye, 

He  walked  among  the  daisies, 
Till  through  the  cloud  of  fortune's  wrong 

He  soared  to  fields  of  glory ; 
But  left  his  land  her  sweetest  song 

And  earth  her  saddest  story. 

HOLMES. 

EGBERT  BURNS  was  born  January  25,  1759,  in  the  Parish  of 
Alloway,  near  Ayr,  Scotland.  His  father — a  farmer  of  very 
meager  means — was  a  thoughtful,  earnest,  pious,  and  not  unin- 
telligent man,  to  whose  active  interest  Robert  owed  no  small 
part  of  his  early  training ;  while  to  his  mother,  and  to  an  old 
woman  who  lived  in  the  family,  he  was  indebted  for  his  knowl- 
edge of  and  his  keen  relish  for  the  early  ballads,  the  legendary 
tales,  and  the  ghost  and  witch  lore  of  his  native  country.  Much 
farming  and  little  schooling  were  the  two  main  ingredients  of 
Burns's  youthful  years ;  but,  touched  by  the  vitalizing  writings 
of  Shakespeare,  Pope,  and  Allan  Ramsay,  it  was  during  this 
same  period  of  rusticity  that  he  began  to  be  sensible  of  his  poetic 
gift,  and  felt  a  divine  urgency  to  its  exercise.  His  instinctive 
repugnance  to  the  harsh,  unlovable  tenets  of  the  Calvinism  of 
his  day,  was  the  most  conspicuous  occasion  of  his  earliest  literary 
efforts;  the  fruits  whereof  we  recognize  in  those  satires,  The 
Holy  Fair,  The  Ordination,  and  Holy  Willies  Prayer. 

Burns's  first  volume  of  poems  was  published  for  the  express 
purpose  of  obtaining  the  means  to  enable  him  to  fly  from  his 
"native  banks  of  Ayr,"  to  avoid  the  consequences  of  certain 
distressful  entanglements  of  a  social  nature,  which  in  the  heat 
and  indiscretion  of  youth  he  had  involved  himself  in.  A  copy 
of  this  volume  falling  into  the  hands  of  Dr.  Blacklock  of  Edin- 
burgh, was  the  cause  of  his  being  invited  to  that  center  of  Scotch 
30*  X  353 


354  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

culture.  And  so,  in  1786,  instead  of  the  friendless  exile  from 
his  native  country  he  had  despairingly  elected  for  himself,  we 
behold  him  arrived  in  that  country's  splendid  capital,  the  invited 
and  the  most  highly  flattered  guest  of  its  men  of  wealth  and  of 
letters. 

He  spends,  unspoilt,  several  months  in  the  midst  of  these 
blandishments ;  obtains  a  handsome  subscription  to  his  volume 
of  poems;  from  which,  together  with  the  sale  of  his  copyright, 
he  is  said  to  have  realized  no  less  than  £700 ;  visits  the  English 
border,  also  the  northern  parts  of  Scotland ;  then  returns  to  his 
obscure  home ;  retrieves  his  late  disgraceful  conduct  by  honor- 
ably marrying  Jane  Armour ;  and,  in  1788,  settles  down  to  the 
life  of  a  farmer  in  Elliesland.  The  three  years  that  immediately 
followed  were,  he  maintains,  the  happiest  of  his  whole  life. 
Among  the  occasional  products  of  his  muse,  at  this  period,  was 
the  long,  spirited,  and  amusing  witch-tale  of  Tarn  O'/Shanter. 

In  1791,  Burns  quitted  the  peaceful,  virtuous  employments 
of  his  farm  for  an  appointment  as  exciseman  at  the  town  of 
Dumfries.  Here,  it  is  generally  allowed,  began  his  downward 
career ;  for  he  not  only  frequented  the  clubs,  where  he  met 
spirits  somewhat  kindred  to  his  own,  but  even  condescended  to 
lavish  the  pearly  treasures  of  his  heart  and  brain  upon  swinish 
revelers.  Nevertheless,  it  was  'during  the  four  or  five  years  of 
his  residence  at  Dumfries  that  he  produced  his  finest  lyrics. 
But  the  almost  continual  dissipation  that  marked  his  life  here, 
together  with  the  grief  experienced  from  the  death  of  his  only 
daughter,  excited  to  their  fatalest  activity  certain  life-long  or- 
ganic disorders,  and  Burns  died  July  21,  1796. 

"  With  our  readers  in  general,  with  men  of  right  feeling  any- 
where, we  are  not  required  to  plead  for  Burns.  In  pitying  admi- 
ration, he  lies  enshrined  in  all  our  hearts,  in  a  far  nobler  Mauso- 
leum than  that  one  of  marble ;  neither  will  his  Works,  even  as 
they  are,  pass  away  from  the  memory  of  man.  While  the  Sbake- 
speares  and  Miltons  roll  on  like  mighty  rivers  through  the  country 
of  Thought,  bearing  fleets  of  traffickers  and  assiduous  pearl-fishers 
on  their  waves,  this  little  .Valclusa  Fountain  will  also  arrest  our 
eye:  for  this  also  is  of  Nature's  own  and  most  cunning  workman- 
ship, bursts  from  the  depths  of  the  earth,  with  a  full  gushing  cur- 
rent, into  the  light  of  day ;  and  often  will  the  traveler  turn  aside 


B  URNS.  355 


to  drink   of  its  clear  waters,   and  muse  among  its  rocks  and 
pines."* 

THE  COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 
INSCRIBED  TO  ROBERT  AIKEN,   ESQ. 

"  The  house  of  William  Burns  was  the  scene  of  this  fine,  devout,  and  tranquil 
drama,  and  William  himself  was  the  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband,  who  gives 
•life  and  sentiment  to  the  whole." 

My  lov'd,  my  honor'd,  much  respected  friend ! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays; 
With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish  end : 

My  dearest  meed,  a  friend's  esteem  and  praise : 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays, 

The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequester'd  scene: 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways ; 

What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been ; 
Ah !  tho'  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I  ween ! 

November  chill  blows  loud  wi'  angry  sugh ;  f 

The  short'ning  winter-day  is  near  a  close; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh: 

The  black'ning  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose: 
The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labor  goes, 

This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes, 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree; 
Th'  expectant  wee  things,  toddlin',  stacher  J  thro' 

To  meet  their  Dad,  wi'  flichterin'  noise  an'  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,$  blinkin'  bonnily, 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie  Wifie's  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 

Does  a'  his  weary  kiaugh  ||  and  care  beguile, 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  and  his  toil. 

Belyve,f  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in, 

At  service  out  amang  the  farmers  roun': 
Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie**  rin 

A  cannieft  errand  to  a  neeber  town: 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 

In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e, 

*  Carlyle  in  Edinburgh  Review,  1828.  t  Bluster.  J  Stagger. 

§  Fire.  ||  Anxiety.  If  Presently.  **  Heedful.  ft  Dexterous. 


356  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Comes  hame,  perhaps  to  shew  a  braw  new  gown, 

Or  deposite  her  sair  won  penny-fee, 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

With  joy  unfeign'd,  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

An'  each  for  other's  welfare  kindly  spiers :  * 
The  social  hours,  swift-wing'd,  unnotic'd,  fleet ; 

Each  tells  the  uncos f  that  he  sees  or  hears; 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years ; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 
The  Mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  shears, 

Gars  J  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel  's  the  new ; — 
The  Father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 

Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command, 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey ; 
And  mind  their  labors  wi'  an  eydent  hand, 

An'  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play : 
"And  O!  be  sure  to  fear  the^Lord  alway ! 

And  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  and  night ! 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray, 

Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might: 
They  never  sought  in  vain,  that  sought  the  Lord  aright ! " 

But,  hark !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door ; 

Jenny,  wha  kens  §  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor, 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  Mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 

Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek, 
With  heart-struck  anxious  care,  inquires  his  name, 

While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak ; 
Weel  pleas'd  the  Mother  hears  it's  nae  wild  worthless  rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome,  Jenny  brings  him  ben ;  || 

A  strappan  youth ;  he  taks  the  Mother's  eye ; 
Ely  the  Jenny  sees  the  visit 's  no  ill  ta'en ; 

The  Father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye.fl 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy, 

But  blate,**  an'  laithfu',  scarce  can  weel  behave ; 
The  Mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 

What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  and  sae  grave ; 
Weel  pleas'd  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like  the  lave.ff 

*  Inquires.  t  News.  t  Makes.  g  Knows. 

||  Into  the  room.  f  Cows.  **  Bashful.  ft  The  rest. 


BUENS.  357 


0  happy  love !  where  love  like  this  is  found ! 
O  heart-felt  raptures! — bliss  beyond  compare! 

1  've  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round, 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare — 
"If  heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 

One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair, 

In  other's  arms,  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  ev'ning  gale." 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart — 

A  wretch !  a  villain !   lost  to  love  and  truth ! 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art, 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth? 
Curse  on  his  perjur'd  arts!   dissembling  smooth! 

Are  honor,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exil'd? 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child? 
Then  paints  the  ruin'd  maid,  and  their  distraction  wild? 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  the  simple  board, 

The  halesome  parritch,*  chief  of  Scotia's  food  : 
The  soupe  their  only  hawkief  does  afford, 

That  'yont  t  the  hallan  snugly  J  chows  her  cood : 
The  dame  brings  forth  in  complimental  mood, 

To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain'dg  kebbuck,§  fell,|| 
An'  aft  he 's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  guid ; 

The  frugal  wine,  garrulous,  will  tell, 
How  'twas  a  towmond^  auld,  sin'  lint**  was  i'the  bell.** 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 

They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide ; 
The  Sire  turns  o'er,  with  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha-Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride ; 
His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside, 

His  lyart  ff  haffets  ff  wearing  thin  and  bare ; 
•       Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 

He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care; 
And  "  Let  us  worship  God ! "  he  says,  with  solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise ; 

/  V    They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim ; 

Perhaps  Dundee's  wild-warbling  measures  rise, 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name ; 

*  Oatmeal  pudding,     f  Cow.  J  Beyond  the  wall.        \  Well-kept  cheese. 

||  Biting  or  keen.         fl  Twelvemonth.    **  Flax  in  flower.         ft  Gray  temples. 


j» 


358  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Or  noble  Elgin  beats,  the  heaven-ward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays : 
Compai'd  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame ; 

The  tickl'd  ear  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The  priest-like  Father  reads  the  sacred  page, 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high; 
,jOr,  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny; 
Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire ; 
Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry ; 

Or  wrapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire ; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme, 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed ; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second  name, 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head : 
How  his  first  followers  and  servants  sped, 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land  : 
How  he  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand : 
And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom  pronounc'd  by  Heaven's 
command. 

Then  kneeling  down,  to  Heaven's  eternal  King, 

The  Saint,  the  Father,  and  the  Husband  prays : 
Hope  "  springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 

>That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days: 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 
No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear  : 
While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

Conipar'd  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 
f — When  men  display  to  congregations  wide, 
Devotion's  ev'ry  grace,  except  the  heart! 
(j      The  pow'r,  incens'd,  the  pageant  will  desert, 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole; 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

May  hear,  well  pleas'd,  the  language  of  the  soul ; 
And  in  His  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enrol. 


BURNS.  359 


Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral  way; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest: 
Their  Parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request, 
He,  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous  nest, 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flow'ry  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best, 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide ; 
But,  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 


- 


From  scenes  like  these,  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs, 

That  makes  her  lov'd  at  home,  rever'd  abroad : 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  -the  breath  of  kings, 

"An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God;" 
And  certes,  in  fair  virtue's  heav'nly  road, 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind; 
"What  is  a  lordling's  pomp?    A  cumbrous  load, 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  Hell,  in  wickedness  refin'd !      ) 

0  Scotia !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content ! 
And,  O !  may  heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 

From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile ! 
Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 

A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-lov'd  Isle. 

O  Thou!   who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 

That  stream'd  through  Wallace's  undaunted  heart: 
^      .    Who  dar'd  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 
)     1        Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 
<j^"''  C*-^fPrie  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  Thou  art, 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward!) 
O  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert ; 

But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot  bard, 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard ! 

TO   A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY, 
On  turning  one  down  with  the  plough,  in  April,  1786. 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow'r, 

Thou  's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour ; 

For  I  maun*  crush  amang  the  stouref 

*  Must.  t  Dust. 


360  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Thy  slender  stem: 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r, 

Thou  bonnie  gem. 

Alas!    it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet, 
The  bonnie  lark,  companion  meet ! 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi'  spreckl'd  breast, 
When  upward  springing,  blythe,  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth ; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent  earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield, 

High  shelt'ring  woods  and  wa's*  maun  shield; 

But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield  f 

O'  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  histiej  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in-  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sunward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  flow'ret  of  the  rural  shade! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray'd, 

And  guileless  trust, 
'Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore, 
'Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er! 

*  Walls.  t  Shelter.  %  Dry  or  barren. 


BURNS.  361 


Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  giv'n, 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv'n, 

By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n 

To  mis'ry's  brink, 
'Till  wrenched  of  every  stay  but  Heav'n, 

He,  ruin'd,  sink ! 

Ev'n  thou  who  mourn'st  the  Daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine— no  distant  date; 
Stern  Ruin's  ploughshare  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
'Till  crush'd  beneath  the  furrow's  weight, 

Shall  be  thy  doom ! 

THE   WHISTLE. 

"  In  the  train  of  Anne  of  Denmark,"  says  Burns,  "  when  she  came  to  Scotland  with 
our  James  the  Sixth,  there  came  over  also  a  Danish  gentleman  of  gigantic  stature 
and  great  prowess,  and  a  matchless  champion  of  Bacchus.  He  had  a  little  ebony 
whistle,  which  at  the  commencement  of  the  orgies  he  laid  on  the  table,  and  who- 
ever was  the  last  able  to  blow  it.  everybody  else  being  disabled  by  the  potency  of  the 
bottle,  was  to  carry  off'  the  whistle  as  a  trophy  of  victory."  The  present  contest  took 
place  in  the  dining-room  of  Friars-Carse,  Burns  being  present  as  the  judge. 

I  sing  of  a  whistle,  a  whistle  of  worth, 

I  sing  of  a  wThistle,  the  pride  of  the  North, 

Was  brought  to  the  court  of  our  good  Scottish  king, 

And  long  with  this  whistle  all  Scotland  shall  ring. 

Old  Loda,  still  rueing  the  arm  of  Fingal, 
The  god  of  the  bottle  sends  down  from  his  hall — 
"  This  whistle  's  your  challenge — to  Scotland  get  o'er, 
And  drink  them  to  hell,  sir!   or  ne'er  see  me  more!" 

Old  poets  have  sung,  and  old  chronicles  tell, 
What  champions  ventur'd,  what  champions  fell; 
The  son  of  great  Loda  was  conqueror  still, 
And  blew  on  his  whistle  his  requiem  shrill. 

Till  Robert,  the  Lord  of  the  Cairn  and  the  Scaur, 
Unmatch'd  at  the  bottle,  unconquer'd  in  war, 
He  drank  his  poor  godship  as  deep  as  the  sea, 
No  tide  of  the  Baltic  e'er  drunker  than  he. 

Thus  Robert,  victorious,  the  trophy  has  gain'd ; 
Which  now  in  his  house  has  for  ages  remain'd; 
Till  three  noble  chieftains,  and  all  of  his  blood, 
The  jovial  contest  again  have  renew'd. 

Three  joyous  good  fellows,  with  hearts  clear  of  flaw ; 
Craigdarroch,  so  famous  for  wit,  worth,  and  law ; 
31 


362  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


And  trusty  Glenriddel,  so  skill'd  in  old  coins ; 
And  gallant  Sir  Robert,  deep-read  in  old  wines. 

Craigdarrqch  began,  with  a  tongue  smooth  as  oil, 
Desiring  Glenriddel  to  yield  up  the  spoil ; 
Or  else  he  would  muster  the  heads  of  the  clan, 
And  once  more,  in  claret,  try  which  was  the  man. 

"  By  the  gods  of  the  ancients ! "   Glenriddel  replies, 
"Before  I  surrender  so  glorious  a  prize, 
I  '11  conjure  the  ghost  of  the  great  Rosie  More, 
And  bumper  his  horn  with  him  twenty  times  o'er." 

Sir  Robert,  a  soldier,  no  speech  would  pretend, 
But  he  ne'er  turn'd  his  back  on  his  foe — or  his  friend, 
Said,  toss  down  the  whistle,  the  prize  of  the  field, 
And,  knee-deep  in  claret,  he'd  die  or  he'd  yield. 

To  the  board  of  Glenriddel  our  heroes  repair, 

So  noted  for  drowning  of  sorrow  and  care ; 

But  for  wine  and  for  welcome  not  more  known  to  fame 

Than  the  sense,  wit,  and  taste  of  a  sweet  lovely  dame. 

A  bard  was  selected  to  witness  the  fray, 
And  tell  future  ages  the  feats  of  the  day ; 
A  bard  who  detested  all  sadness  and  spleen, 
And  wish'd  that  Parnassus  a  vineyard  had  been. 

The  dinner  being  over,  the  claret  they  ply, 

And  ev'ry  new  cork  is  a  new  spring  of  joy ; 

In  the  bands  of  old  friendship  and  kindred  so  set, 

And  the  bands  grew  the  tighter  the  more  they  were  wet. 

Gay  pleasure  ran  riot  as  bumpers  ran  o'er ; 
Bright  Phoebus  ne'er  witness'd  so  joyous  a  core, 
And  vow'd  that  to  leave  them  he  was  quite  forlorn, 
Till  Cynthia  hinted  he'd  find  them  next  morn. 

Six  bottles  a-piece  had  well  worn  out  the  night, 
When  gallant  Sir  Robert,  to  finish  the  fight, 
Turn'd  o'er  in  one  bumper  a  bottle  of  red, 
And  swore  'twas  the  way  that  their  ancestor  did. 

Then  worthy  Glenriddel,  so  cautious  and  sage, 
No  longer  the  warfare,  ungodly,  would  wage ; 
A  high-ruling  Elder  to  wallow  in  wine! 
He  left  the  foul  business  to  folks  less  divine. 


BURNS.  363 


The  gallant  Sir  Robert  fought  hard  to  the  end; 
But  who  can  with  fate  and  quart-bumpers  contend  ? 
Though  fate  said — a  hero  shall  perish  in  light; 
So  up  rose  bright  Phoebus — and  down  fell  the  knight. 

Next  up  rose  our  bard,  like  a  prophet  in  drink ; — 
"  Craigdarroch,  thou  'It  soar  when  creation  shall  sink ; 
But  if  thou  would  flourish  immortal  in  rhyme, 
Come — one  bottle  more — and  have  at  the  sublime! 

"  Thy  line,  that  have  struggled  for  freedom  with  Bruce, 

Shall  heroes  and  patriots  ever  produce: 

So  thine  be  the  laurel,  and  mine  be  the  bay ; 

The  field  thou  hast  won,  by  yon  bright  god  of  day ! " 

YON  WILD  MOSSY  MOUNTAINS. 

"  This  song,"  says  Burns,  "  alludes  to  a  part  of  my  private  history,  which  it  is  of 
no  consequence  to  the  world  to  know."    "  Nannie  "  is  likely  the  heroine. 

Yon  wild  mossy  mountains  sae  lofty  and  wide, 

That  nurse  in  their  bosom  the  youth  o'  .the  Clyde, 

Where  the  grouse  lead  their  coveys  thro'  the  heather  to  feed, 

And  the  shepherd  tents  his  flock  as  he  pipes  on  his  reed.* 

Not  Cowrie's  rich  valleys,  nor  Forth's  sunny  shores, 
To  me  hae  the  charms  o'  yon  wild,  mossy  moors ; 
For  there,  by  a  lanely  and  sequester'd  stream, 
Resides  a  sweet  lassie,  my  thought  and  my  dream. 

Amang  thae  wild  mountains  shall  still  by  my  path, 
Ilk  f  stream  foaming  down  its  ain  green,  narrow  strath ;  J 
For  there,  wi'  my  lassie,  the  day  lang  I  rove, 
While  o'er  us  unheeded  flee  the  swift  hours  o'  love. 

She  is  not  the  fairest,  altho'  she  is  fair ; 
O'  nice  education  but  sma'  is  her  share ; 
Her  parentage  humble  as  humble  can  be ; 
But  I  lo'e  the  dear  lassie  because  she  lo'es  me. 

To  beauty  what  man  but  maun  $  yield  him  a  prize, 
In  her  armor  of  glances,  and  blushes,  and  sighs? 
And  when  wit  and  refinement  hae  polished  her  darts, 
They  dazzle  OOT  een  as  they  flee  to  our  hearts. 

But  kindness,  sweet  kindness,  in  the  fond  sparkling  e'e, 
Has  lustre  outshining  the  diamond  to  me : 

*  As  written  by  Burns,  the  last  two  lines  of  each  verse  are  repeated, 
f  Each.  t  Bottom  land  or  plain.  \ Must. 


364  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

And  the  heart  beating  love  as  I'm  clasp'd  in  her  arms, 
O,  these  are  my  lassie's  all-conquering  charms ! 

WINTER:  A  DIRGE. 

This  is  one  of  Burns's  earliest  poems,  and  was  written  during  the  season  it  com 
memorates,  "just  after  a  train  of  misfortunes." 

The  wintry  west  extends  his  blast, 

And  hail  and  rain  does  blaw; 
Or  the  stormy  north  sends  driving  forth 

The  blinding  sleet  and  snaw; 
While  tumbling  brown,  the  burn*  comes  down, 

And  roars  frae  bank  to  brae; 
And  bird  and  beast  in  eovert  rest, 

And  pass  the  heartless  day. 

"The  sweeping  blast,  the  sky  o'ercast," 

The  joyless  winter  day 
Let  others  fear,  to  me  more  dear 

Than  all  the  pride  of  May: 
The  tempest's  howl,  it  soothes  my  soul, 

My  griefs  it  seems  to  join ; 
The  leafless  trees  my  fancy  please, 

Their  fate  resembles  mine! 

Thou  Power  Supreme,  whose  mighty  scheme 

These  woes  of  mine  fulfil, 
Here,  firm,  I  rest,  they  must  be  best, 

Because  they  are  Thy  will ! 
Then  all  I  want  (0,  do  Thou  grant 

This  one  request  of  mine!) 
Since  to  enjoy  Thou  dost  deny, 

Assist  me  to  resign! 

BRUCE  TO  HIS  MEN  AT  BANNOCKBURN.f 

Written  in  September,  1793. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 

Or  to  victorie! 

Now 's  the  day,  and  now 's  the  hour ; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour: 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  pow'r — 
Chains  and  slaverie! 

*  A  stream  of  water. 

f  This  is  the  poet's  first  and  favorite  version. 


BURNS.  365 


Wha  will  be  a  traitor-knave? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee! 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa', 

Let  him  follow  me! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains! 
By  our  sons  in  servile  chains! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be  free! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow! — 

Let  us  do  or  die. 

FLOW  GENTLY,  SWEET  AFTON. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton !  among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  I  '11  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise  : 
My  Mary 's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream — 
Flow  glently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

Thou  stock -dove,  whose  echo  resounds  thro'  the  glen ; 
Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yori  thorny  den: 
Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  forbear — 
I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton !  thy  neighboring  hills, 
Far  mark'd  with  the  courses  of  clear,  winding  rills ; 
There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high, 
My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below, 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow! 
There,  oft  as  mild  evening  weeps  over  the  lea, 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides ; 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave, 
As  gathering  sweet  flow'rets  she  stems  thy  clear  wave. 
31* 


366  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton !   among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays ! 
My  Mary 's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream — 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

"The  excellence  of  Burns  is,  indeed,  among  the  rarest,  whether 
in  poetry  or  prose;  but,  at  the  same  time,  it  is  plain  and  easily 
recognized :  his  Sincerity,  his  indisputable  air  of  Truth.  Here  are 
no  fabulous  woes  or  joys;  no  hollow  fantastic  sentimentalities;  no 
wiredrawn  refinings,  either  in  thought  or  feeling:  the  passion  that 
is  traced  before  us  has  glowed  in  a  living  heart;  the  opinion  he 
utters  has  risen  in  his  own  understanding,  and  been  a  light  to  his 
own  steps.  He  does  not  write  from  hearsay,  but  from  sight  and 
experience  :  it  is  the  scenes  he  has  lived  and  labored  amidst,  that 
he  describes :  those  scenes,  rude  and  humble  as  they  are,  have 
kindled  beautiful  emotions  in  his  soul,  noble  thoughts,  and  defi- 
nite resolves  ;  and  he  speaks  forth  what  is  in  him,  not  from  any 
outward  call  of  vanity  or  interest,  but  because  his  heart  is  too  full 
to  be  silent.  He  speaks  it,  too,  with  such  melody  and  modulation 
as  he  can;  'in  homely  rustic  jingle;'  but  it  is  his  own,  and 
genuine.  .  .  . 

"  In  addition  to  his  sincerity,  it  has  another  peculiar  merit.  It 
displays  itself  in  his  choice  of  subjects,  or  rather  in  his  indifference 
as  to  subjects,  and  the  power  he  has  of  making  all  subjects  inter- 
esting. .  .  .  He  shows  himself  at  least  a  poet  of  Nature's  own  mak- 
ing; and  Nature,  after  all,  is  still  the  grand  agent  in  making  poets. 
.  .  .  Independently  of  this  essential  gift  of  poetic  feeling,  a  certain 
rugged  sterling  worth  pervades  whatever  Burns  has  written:  a 
virtue,  as  of  green  fields  and  mountain  breezes,  dwells  in  his 
poetry ;  it  is  redolent  of  natural  life,  and  hardy,  natural  men.  .  .  . 
We  see  in  him  the  gentleness,  the  trembling  pity  of  a  woman,  with 
the  deep  earnestness,  the  force  and  passionate  ardor  of  a  hero. 
Tears  lie  in  him,  and  consuming  fire;  as  lightning  lurks  in  the 
drops  of  the  summer  cloud.  .  .  . 

"  And  observe  with  what  a  prompt  and  eager  force  he  grasps  his 
subject,  be  it  what  it  may !  ...  Is  it  of  reason ;  some  truth  to  be  dis- 
covered? No  sophistry,  no  vain  surface  logic  detains  him;  quick, 
resolute,  unerring,  he  pierces  through  into  the  marrow  of  the  ques- 
tion ;  and  speaks  his  verdict  with  an  emphasis  that  cannot  be  for- 
gotten. Is  it  of  description ;  some  visual  object  to  be  represented? 
No  poet  of  any  age  or  nation  is  more  graphic  than  Burns :  the 
characteristic  features  disclose  themselves  to  him  at  a  glance; 
three  lines  from  his  hand,  and  we  have  a  likeness.  And,  in  that 


B  URNS.  367 


rough  dialect,  in  that  rude,  often  awkward  metre,  so  clear,  and 
definite  a  likeness ! 

"But,  unless  we  mistake,  the  intellectual  gift  of  Burns  is  fine  as 
well  as  strong.  The  more  delicate  relations  of  things  could  not 
well  have  escaped  his  eye,  for  they  were  intimately  present  to  his 
heart.  .  .  .  No  one,  at  all  events,  is  ignorant  that  in  the  poetry  of 
Burns,  keenness  of  insight  keeps  pace  with  keenness  of  feeling; 
that  his  light  is  not  more  pervading  than  his  warmth.  He  is  a  man 
of  the  most  impassioned  temper ;  with  passions  not  strong  only,  but 
noble,  and  of  the  sort  in  which  great  virtues  and  great  poems  take 
their  rise.  It  is  reverence,  it  is  Love  towards  all  Nature  that 
inspires  him,  that  opens  his  eyes  to  its  beauty,  and  makes  heart 
and  voice  eloquent  in  its  praise.  .  .  . 

"  By  far  the  most  finished,  complete,  and  truly  inspired  pieces 
of  Burns  are,  without  dispute,  to  be  found  among  his  Songs.  The 
reason  may  be,  that  Song  is  a  brief  and  simple  species  of  composi- 
tion ;  and  requires  nothing  so  much  for  its  perfection  as  genuine 
poetic  feeling,  genuine  music  of  heart.  .  .  .  Independently  of  the 
clear,  manly,  heartfelt  sentiment  that  ever  pervades  his  poetry,  his 
Songs  are  honest  in  another  point  of  view  :  in  form,  as  well  as  in 
spirit.  They  do  not  affect  to  be  set  to  music,  but  they  actually  and 
in  themselves  are  music;  they  have  received  their  life,  and  fash- 
ioned themselves  together,  in  the  medium  of  Harmony,  as  Venus 
rose  from  the  bosom  of  the  sea.  The  story,  the  feeling,  is  not 
detailed,  but  suggested;  not  said,  or  spouted,  in  rhetorical  com- 
pleteness and  coherence;  but  sung,  in  fitful  gushes,  in  glowing 
hints,  in  fantastic  breaks,  in  warblings  not  of  the  voice  only,  but  of 
the  whole  mind.  .  .  . 

"With  what  tenderness  he  sings,  yet  with  what  vehemence  and 
entireness  !  There  is  a  piercing  wail  in  his  sorrow,  the  purest 
rapture  in  his  joy  :  he  burns  with  the  sternest  ire,  or  laughs  with 
the  loudest  or  slyest  mirth;  and  yet  he  is  sweet  and  soft.  If  we 
further  take  into  account  the  immense  variety  of  his  subjects;  how, 
from  the  loud,  flowing  revel  in  Willie  brew'd  a  peck  "o  Maut,  to  the 
still,  rapt  enthusiasm  of  sadness  for  Mary  in  Heaven;  from  the  glad, 
kind  greeting  of  Auld  Langsyne,  or  the  comic  archness  of  Duncan 
Gray,  to  the  fire-eyed  fury  of  Scots,  wha  hae  wV  Wallace  bled,  he  has 
found  a  tone  and  words  for  every  mood  of  man's  heart, — it  will  seem 
a  small  praise  if  we  rank  him  as  first  of  all  British  song-writers."* 

*  Carlyle  in  Edinburgh  Review,  1828. 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH  was  born  November  10,  1728,  at  the 
hamlet  of  Pallas,  Longford  County,  Ireland.  His  parents  were 
respectable,  but  very  poor.  At  the  age  of  six  he  was  placed  in 
charge  of  the  village  school-master — an  old  soldier  and  vagabond 
pedagogue,  who  fed  the  minds  of  his  unruly  pupils  mainly  on 
campaigning  stories,  fairy  superstitions,  and  doggerel  of  his  own 
making.  Such  a  master  was  a  godsend  to  young  Goldsmith, 
to  whom  severe  study  was  ever  repugnant,  but  whose  nature 
eagerly  devoured  and  assimilated  all  that  partook  of  the  fabu- 
lous, the  romantic,  and  the  poetic. 

His  career  at  several  schools  to  which  he  was  sent  at  a  later 
date — through  the  assistance  of  his  uncle,  John  Goldsmith — is 
thus  described  by  one  of  his  biographers.*  "  Even  at  these 
schools  his  proficiency  does  not  appear  to  have  been  brilliant. 
He  was  indolent  and  careless,  however,  rather  than  dull,  and, 
on  the  whole,  appears  to  have  been  well  thought  of  by  his 
teachers.  In  his  studies  he  inclined  toward  the  Latin  poets 
and  historians ;  relished  Ovid  and  Horace,  and  delighted  in 
Livy.  He  exercised  himself  with  pleasure  in  reading  and  trans- 
lating Tacitus,  and  was  brought  to  pay  attention  to  style  in  his 
compositions  by  a  reproof  from  his  brother  Henry,  to  whom  he 
had  written  brief  and  confused  letters,  and  who  told  him  in 
reply,  that,  if  he  had  but  little  to  say,  to  endeavor  to  say  that 
well." 

At  length — in  1745 — he  entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  as 
a  sizer,  or  poor  scholar.  Here  he  spent  about  four  years,  prin- 
cipally in  neglecting  his  studies,  and  in  cultivating  convivial 
habits.  Leaving  the  college,  he  reluctantly  consented  to  pre- 
pare himself  for  holy  orders.  The  character  of  this  preparation 
is  sketched  as  follows  by  Irving.  "  During  this  loitering  life 

*  Washington  Irving. 

36S 


GOLDSMITH.  369 

Goldsmith  pursued  no  study,  but  rather  amused  himself  with 
miscellaneous  reading ;  such  as  biography,  travels,  poetry, 
novels,  plays — everything,  in  short,  that  administered  to  the 
imagination.  Sometimes  he  strolled  along  the  banks  of  the 
river  Inny ;  where,  in  after  years,  when  he  had  become  famous, 
his  favorite  seats  and  haunts  used  to  be  pointed  out.  Often  he 
joined  in  the  rustic  sports  of  the  villagers,  and  became  adroit 
at  throwing  the  sledge,  a  favorite  feat  of  activity  and  strength 
in  Ireland."  As  the  result  of  such  a  course  of  study  he  failed 
of  ordination. 

After  this,  Goldsmith  served  for  a  short  time  as  a  tutor  in  a 
gentleman's  family,  and  immediately  upon  canceling  his  engage- 
ment squandered  his  earnings  in  a  journey  to  Cork.  His  friends 
next  determined — for  our  author  seems  ever  to  have  been  inca- 
pable of  determining  anything  for  himself — that  he  should  try 
the  law  ;  but  the  fifty  pounds  wherewith  his  uncle  supplied  him 
for  this  purpose  he  lost  in  a  gambling-house  in  Dublin.  At  the 
instance  of  Dean  Goldsmith,  another  kinsman,  he  next  essayed 
physic.  Two  years  were  spent  in  Edinburgh,  and  another  at 
Ley  den,  on  the  Continent,  in  attendance  upon  medical  lectures. 
But  at  this  juncture,  having  spent  for  some  costly  tulip-roots, 
as  a  present  for  his  generous  uncle  John,  all  the  money  he  had 
borrowed  for  conveying  him  to  Paris,  where  he  intended  to 
complete  his  medical  studies,  "  he  actually  set  off  on  a  tour  of 
the  Continent,  in  February,  1755,  with  but  one  spare  shirt,  a 
flute,  and  a  single  guinea." 

Two  years  were  thus  consumed,  during  which  he  attended 
the  chemical  lectures  of  Kouelle  at  Paris,  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Voltaire,  and  traveled  on  foot  through  parts  of  Germany, 
Switzerland,  and  Italy,  procuring  his  beggarly  subsistence  prin- 
cipally by  his  indifferent  skill  upon  the  flute,  and  by  disputations 
upon  philosophy  and  literature  at  certain  of  the  universities 
and  convents. 

Returning  to  England,  he  at  length,  with  great  difficulty, 
found  his  way  to  London,  where  "  we  find  him  launched  on  the 
great  metropolis,  or  rather,  drifting  about  its  streets,  at  night, 
in  the  gloomy  month  of  February,  with  but  a  few  half-pence  in 
his  pocket."  Usher  to  a  school,  assistant  in  a  laboratory,  physi- 

Y 


370  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

cian,  proof-reader,  school-master, — these  were  the  makeshifts  by 
which  poor  Goldsmith  barely  kept  himself  alive  for  his  first  year 
in  London. 

In  1757  Goldsmith  assumed — incredible  as  it  may  appear  in 
view  of  the  multifarious  stations  he  had  already  flitted  into 
and  out  of — still  another  character — that  of  a  literary  hack. 
This  he  began  as  a  contributor  to  the  "  Monthly  Review ;  "  and, 
as  a  scribbler  for  various  periodicals,  a  compiler  of  works  on 
history,  literature,  biography,  and  natural  history,  and  a  writer 
of  prefaces,  notes,  and  introductions, — excepting,  of  course,  those 
rare  intervals  of  original  authorship, — protracted  its  killing 
drudgery  to  the  day  of  his  death. 

About  1760,  Goldsmith  became  personally  acquainted  with 
Dr.  Johnson,  "  The  great  Cham  of  Literature,"  in  whom  he 
found  a  most  constant  and  valuable  friend.  These,  together 
with  Joshua  Reynolds,  Edmund  Burke,  Dr.  Nugent,  Langton, 
Beauclerc,  Chamier,  and  Hawkins,  shortly  afterward  formed 
what  subsequently  became  the  famous  Literary  Club.  Improved 
and  stimulated  by  the  society  of  such  cultured  and  powerful 
minds,  Goldsmith,  in  the  moments  of  leisure  that  interspersed 
his  hours  of  mercenary  toil,  converted  his  large  experience  of 
life  into  those  charming  and  lasting  compositions,  whose  famil- 
iarity might  almost  excuse  their  mention , — the  Vicar  ofWakefield, 
the  Traveler,  the  Deserted  Village,  and  She  Stoops  to  Conquer. 

"  I  received,  one  morning,"  says  Dr.  Johnson,  "  a  message  from 
poor  Goldsmith  that  he  was  in  great  distress,  and,  as  it  was  not  in 
his  power  to  come  to  me,  begging  that  I  would  come  to  him  as 
soon  as  possible.  I  sent  him  a  guinea,  and  promised  to  come  to 
him  directly.  I  accordingly  went  as  soon  as  I  was  dressed,  and 
found  that  his  landlady  had  arrested  him  for  his  rent,  at  which  he 
was  in  a  violent  passion.  I  perceived  that  he  had  already  changed 
my  guinea,  and  had  a  bottle  of  Madeira  and  a  glass  before  him. 
I  put  the  cork  into  the  bottle,  desired  he  would  be  calm,  and  began 
to  talk  to  him  of  the  means  by  which  he  might  be  extricated.  He 
then  told  me  he  had  a  novel  ready  for  the  press,  which  he  produced 
to  me.  I  looked  into  it  and  saw  its  merit;  told  the  landlady  I 
should  soon  return ;  and,  having  gone  to  a  bookseller,  sold  it  for 
sixty  pounds.  I  brought  Goldsmith  the  money,  and  he  discharged 
his  rent,  not  without  rating  his  landlady  in  a  high  tone  for  having 
used  him  so  ill." 


GOLDSMITH.  371 


"This  novel  was  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  which  was  not  published, 
however,  until  two  years  after  the  above  incident.  It  was  rescued 
from  its  dusty  imprisonment  in  the  drawer  of  an  unappreciative 
publisher,  by  the  eclat  resulting  from  the  publication  of  the  Trav- 
eler (1764). 

"The  plan  of  the  latter  was  conceived  many  years  before,  during 
his  travels  in  Switzerland,  and  a  sketch  of  it  sent  from  that  country 
to  his  brother  Henry  in  Ireland.  The  original  outline  is  said  to 
have  embraced  a  wider  scope;  but  it  was  probably  contracted 
through  diffidence,  in  the  process  of  finishing  the  parts.  It  had 
laid  by  him  for  several  years  in  a  crude  state,  and  it  was  with 
extreme  hesitation,  and  after  much  revision,  that  he  at  length  sub- 
mitted it  to  Dr.  Johnson.  The  frank  and  warm  approbation  of  the 
latter  encouraged  him  to  finish  it  for  the  press ;  and  Dr.  Johnson 
himself  contributed  a  few  lines  towards  the  conclusion."* 

At  his  summer  retreat  for  the  ^ear  1768 — a  little  embowered 
cottage  agreeably  situated  about  eight  miles  from  London,  he 
composed  the  greater  part  of  the  Deserted  Village,  which  was  not 
published,  however,  until  1770.  The  characters  and  the  scenery  of 
this  beautiful  poem  were  all  suggested  by  the  personages,  surround- 
ings, and  incidents  of  his  boyhood's  home  at  Lissoy, — his  father 
and  his  brother  alternately  sitting  for  the  picture  of  the  pastor. 

The  revenue  arising  from  the  publication  of  these  works, — 
although  meager  in  any  one  instance, — together  with  that  derived 
from  his  numerous  literary  "jobs,  "was  considerable,  at  least  enough, 
had  it  been  economically  managed,  to  have  placed  him  in  comfort- 
able circumstances  during  the  latter  part  of  his  life ;  but  so  im- 
pulsively generous  was  his  nature,  as  well  as  improvident,  that 
these  hard-earned  wages  were  no  sooner  got  in  hand,  than  thrown 
away  either  in  sumptuous  suppers  or  in  the  most  indiscreet  char- 
ities. Between  merry  "  Clubs  "  and  specious  "  Acquaintances  "  he 
was  robbed,  or  rather  robbed  himself,  not  only  of  the  comforts,  but 
even  of  the  necessaries  of  life.  Health  and  its  attendant,  spirits, 
went  along  with  his  means,  death  shortly  following  these.  He  died 
April  4,  1774. 

From  the  many  choice  incidents  that  abound  in  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefield,  we  select  the  following: 

Whatever  might  have  been  Sophia's  sensations,  the  rest  of  the  family 
was  easily  consoled  for  Mr.  Burchell's  absence  by  the  company  of  our 
landlord,  whose  visits  now  became  more  frequent  and  longer.  He  usually 
came  in  the  morning,  and  while  my  son  and  I  followed  our  occupation  abroad, 
he  sat  with  the  family  at  home,  and  amused  them  by  describing  the  town, 

*  Biography  of  Goldsmith,  by  Washington  Irving. 


372  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

with  every  part  of  which  he  was  particularly  acquainted.  He  could  repeat 
all  the  observations  that  were  retailed  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  play-houses, 
and  had  all  the  good  things  of  the  high  wits  by  rote,  long  before  they  made 
their  way  into  the  jest-books.  The  intervals  between  conversation  were 
employed  in  teaching  my  daughters  piquet,  or  sometimes  in  setting  my  two 
little  ones  to  box,  to  make  them  sharp,  as  he  called  it :  but  the  hopes  of 
having  him  for  a  son-in-law,  in  some  measure  blinded  us  to  all  his  imper- 
fections. 

It  must  be  owned  that  my  wife  laid  a  thousand  schemes  to  entrap  him ; 
or,  to  speak  more  tenderly,  used  every  art  to  magnify  the  merit  of  her 
daughter.  If  the  cakes  at  tea  ate  short  and  crisp,  they  were  made  by 
Olivia ;  if  the  gooseberry  wine  was  well  knit,  the  gooseberries  were  of  her 
gathering ;  it  was  her  fingers  which  gave  the  pickles  their  peculiar  green ; 
and  in  the  composition  of  a  pudding,  it  was  her  judgment  that  mixed  the 
ingredients.  Then  the  poor  woman  would  sometimes  tell  the  'Squire,  that 
she  thought  him  and  Olivia  extremely  of  a  size,  and  would  bid  both  stand 
up  to  see  which  was  the  tallest.  These  instances  of  cunning,  which  she 
thought  impenetrable,  yet  which  everybody  saw  through,  were  very  pleas- 
ing to  our  benefactor,  who  gave  every  day  some  new  proofs  of  his  passion, 
which,  though  they  had  not  arisen  "to  proposals  of  marriage,  yet  we  thought 
fell  but  little  short  of  it ;  and  his  slowness  was  attributed  sometimes  to  native 
bashfulness,  and  sometimes  to  his  fear  of  offending  his  uncle.  An  occur- 
rence, however,  which  happened  soon  after,  put  it  beyond  a  doubt  that  he 
designed  to  become  one  of  our  family — my  wife  even  regarded  it  as  an 
absolute  promise. 

My  wife  and  daughter  happening  to  return  a  visit  to  neighbor  Flambor- 
ough's,  found  that  family  had  lately  got  their  pictures  drawn  by  a  limner 
who  traveled  the  country  and  took  likenesses  for  fifteen  shillings  a  head. 
As  this  family  and  ours  had  long  a  sort  of  rivalry  in  point  of  taste,  our 
spirit  took  the  alarm  at  this  stolen  march  upon  us,  and  notwithstanding 
all  [  could  say,  and  I  said  much,  it  was  resolved  that  we  should  have  pic- 
tures done  too.  Having,  therefore,  engaged  the  limner — for  what  could  I 
do  ? — our  next  deliberation  was  to  show  the  superiority  of  our  tastes  in  the 
attitudes.  As  for  our  neighbor's  family,  there  were  seven  of  them,  and 
they  were  drawn  with  seven  oranges,  a  thing  quite  out  of  taste,  no  variety 
in  life,  no  composition  in  the  world.  We  desired  to  have  something  in  a 
brighter  style,  and,  after  many  debates,  at  length  came  to  an  unanimous  res- 
olution of  being  drawn  together  in  one  large  historical  family  piece.  This 
would  be  cheaper,  since  one  fraftne  would  serve  for  all,  and  it  would  be 
infinitely  more  genteel ;  for  all  families  of  any  taste  were  now  drawn  in  the 
same  manner. 

As  we  did  not  immediately  recollect  an  historical  subject  to  hit  us,  we 
were  contented  each  with  being  drawn  as  independent  historical  figures. 
My  wife  desired  to  be  represented  as  Venus,  and  the  painter  was  desired 
not  to  be  too  frugal  of  his  diamonds  in  her  stomacher  and  hair.  Her  two 
little  ones  were  to  be  as  Cupids  by  her  side,  while  I,  in  my  gown  and  band, 
was  to  present  her  with  my  books  on  the  Whist onian  controversy.  Olivia 
would  be  drawn  as  an  Amazon  sitting  upon  a  bank  of  flowers,  dressed  in  a 
green  Joseph,  richly  laced  with  gold,  and  a  whip  in  her  hand.  Sophia  was 
to  be  a  shepherdess,  with  as  many  sheep  as  the  painter  could  put  in  for 
nothing;  and  Moses  was  to  be  dressed  out  with  a  hat  and  white  feather.  Onr 
taste  so  much  pleased  the  'Squire,  that  he  insisted  as  being  put  in  as  one  of 
the  familv  in  the  character  of  Alexander  the  Great,  at  Olivia's  feet.  This 


GOLDSMITH.  373 


was  considered  by  us  all  as  an  indication  of  his  desire  to  be  introduced  into 
the  family,  nor  could  we  refuse  his  request. 

The  painter  was  therefore  set  to  work,  and  as  he  wrought  with  assiduity 
and  expedition,  in  less  than  four  days  the  whole  was  completed.  The  piece 
was  large,  and  it  must  be  owned  he  did  not  spare  his  colors ;  for  which  my 
wife  gave  him  great  encomiums.  We  were  all  perfectly  satisfied  with  his 
performance ;  but  an  unfortunate  circumstance  had  not  occurred  till  the 

Eicture  was  finished,  which  now  struck  us  with  dismay.  It  was  so  very 
irge  that  we  had  no  place  in  the  house  to  fix  it.  How  we  all  came  to  dis- 
regard so  material  a  point  is  inconceivable ;  but  certain  it  is,  we  had  been 
all  greatly  remiss.  The  picture,  therefore,  instead  of  gratifying  our  vanity, 
as  we  hoped,  leaned,  in  a  most  mortifying  manner,  against  the  kitchen  wall, 
where  the  canvas  was  stretched  and  painted,  much  too  large  to  be  got 
through  any  of  the  doors,  and  the  jest  of  all  our  neighbors.  One  compared 
it  to  Kobinson  Crusoe's  long-boat,  too  large  to  be  removed ;  another  thought 
it  more  resembled  a  reel  in  a  bottle :  some  wondered  how  it  could  be  got 
out,  but  still  more  were  amazed  how  it  ever  got  in. 

But  though  it  excited  the  ridicule  of  some,  it  effectually  raised  more 
malicious  suggestions  in  many.  The  'Squire's  portrait  being  found  united 
with  ours,  was  an  honor  too  great  to  escape  envy.  Scandalous  whispers 
began  to  circulate  at  our  expense,  and  our  tranquillity  was  continually  dis- 
turbed by  persons  who  came  as  friends  to  tell  us  what  was  said  of  us  by 
enemies.  These  reports  we  always  resented  with  becoming  spirit;  but 
scandal  ever  improves  by  opposition. 

We  once  again,  therefore,  entered  into  a  consultation  upon  obviating  the 
malice  of  our  enemies,  and  at  last  came  to  a  resolution  which  had  too  much 
cunning  to  give  me  entire  satisfaction.  It  was  this :  as  our  principal  object 
was  to  discover  the  honor  of  Mr.  Thornhill's  (the  'Squire)  addresses,  my 
wife  undertook  to  sound  him,  by  pretending  to  ask  his  advice  in  the  choice 
of  a  husband  for  her  eldest  daughter.  If  this  was  not  found  sufficient  to 
induce  him  to  a  declaration,  it  was  then  resolved  to  terrify  him  with  a  rival. 
To  this  last  step,  however,  I  would  by  no  means  give  my  consent,  till  Olivia 
gave  me  the  most  solemn  assurances  that  she  would  marry  the  person  pro- 
vided to  rival  him  on  this  occasion,  if  he  did  not  prevent  it  by  taking  her 
himself.  Such  was  the  scheme  laid,  which,  though  I  did  not  strenuously 
oppose,  I  did  not  entirely  approve. 

The  next  time,  therefore,  that  Mr.  Thornhill  came  to  see  us,  my  girls 
took  care  to  be  out  of  the  way,  in  order  to  give  their  mamma  an  opportu- 
nity of  putting  her  scheme  into  execution ;  but  they  only  retired  to  the 
next  room,  whence  they  could  overhear  the  whole  conversation.  My  wife 
artfully  introduced  it,  by  observing  that  one  of  the  Miss  Flamboroughs  was 
like  to  have  a  good  match  of  it  in  Mr.  Spanker.  To  this  the  'Squire  assent- 
ing, she  proceeded  to  remark,  that  they  who  had  warm  fortunes  were  always 


sure  of  getting  good  husbands.  "  But  heaven  help,"  continued  she,  "  the 
girls  that  have  none.  What  signifies  beauty,  Mr.  Thornhill  ?  or  what  sig- 
nifies all  the  virtue,  and  all  the  qualifications  in  the  world,  in  this  age  of 
self-interest  ?  It  is  not,  what  is  she  ?  but  what  has  she  ?  is  all  the  cry." 

"  Madam,"  returned  he,  "  I  highly  approve  the  justice,  as  well  as  the  nov- 
elty of  your  remarks,  and  if  I  were  a  king,  it  should  be  otherwise.  It  should 
then,  indeed,  be  fine  times  with  the  girls  without  fortunes :  our  two  young 
ladies  should  be  the  first  for  whom  I  would  provide." 

"  Ah,  sir,"  returned  my  wife,  "you  are  pleased  to  be  facetious:  but  I  wish 
32 


374  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


I  were  a  queen,  and  then  I  know  where  my  eldest  daughter  should  look 
for  a  husband,  but  now,  that  you  have  put  it  into  my  head,  seriously,  Mr. 
Thornhill,  can't  you  recommend  me  a  proper  husband  for  her  ?  she  is  now 
nineteen  years  old,  well  grown  and  well  educated,  and,  in  my  humble 
opinion,  does  not  want  for  parts." 

"  Madam,"  replied  he,  "  if  I  were  to  choose,  I  would  find  out  a  person 
possessed  of  every  accomplishment  that  can  make  an  angel  happy.  One 
with  prudence,  fortune,  taste,  and  sincerity  ;  such,  madam,  would  be,  in  my 
opinion,  the  proper  husband."  "  Ay,  sir,"  said  she,  "  but  do  you  know  of 
any  such  person?"  "No,  madam,"  returned  he,  "it  is  impossible  to  know 
any  person  who  deserves  to  be  her  husband :  she 's  too  great  a  treasure  for 
one  man's  possession ;  she 's  a  goddess !  Upon  my  soul,  I  speak  what  I 
think ;  she 's  an  angel." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Thornhill,  you  only  flatter  my  poor  girl ;  but  we  have  been 
thinking  of  marrying  her  to  one  of  your  tenants  whose  mother  is  lately 
dead,  and  who  wants  a  manager :  you  know  whom  I  mean,  Farmer  Wil- 
liams ;  a  warm  man,  Mr.  Thornhill,  able  to  give  her  good  bread ;  and  who 
has  several  times  made  her  proposals  (which  was  actually  the  case) :  but, 
sir,"  concluded  she,  "  I  should  be  glad  to  have  your  approbation  of  our 
choice." 

"  How !  madam ! "  replied  he,  "  my  approbation !  My  approbation  of 
such  a  choice  !  Never !  What !  sacrifice  so  much  beauty,  and  sense,  and 
goodness,  to  a  creature  insensible  of  the  blessing  !  Excuse  me,  I  can  never 
approve  of  such  a  piece  of  injustice  !  And  I  have  my  reasons."  "  Indeed, 
sir,"  cried  Deborah,  "if  you  have  your  reasons^  that's  another  affair,  but  I 
should  be  glad  to  know  those  reasons."  "  Excuse  me,  madam,"  returned 
he,  "  they  lie  too  deep  for  discovery  (laying  his  hand  upon  his  bosom) ; 
they  remain  buried,  riveted  here." 

.  After  he  was  gone,  upon  a  general  consultation,  we  could  not  tell  what  to 
make  of  these  fine  sentiments.  Olivia  considered  them  as  instances  of  the 
most  exalted  passion ;  but  I  was  not  quite  so  sanguine ;  it  seemed  to  me 
pretty  plain,  that  they  had  more  of  love  than  matrimony  in  them ;  yet 
whatever  they  might  portend,  it  was  resolved  to  prosecute  the  scheme  of 
Farmer  Williams,  who,  from  my  daughter's  first  appearance  in  the  coun- 
try, had  paid  her  his  addresses. 

Our  remaining  extracts  are  from  the  Deserted  Village. 

Sweet  Auburn !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheer'd  the  laboring  swain, 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  summer's  ling'ring  blooms  delay'd: 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 
How  often  have  I  loiter'd  o'er  thy  green, 
Where  humble  happiness  endear'd  each  scene. 
How  often  have  I  paus'd  on  every  charm, 
The  shelter'd  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 
The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighboring  hill, 


GOLDSMITH.  375 


The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made! 

How  often  have  I  bless'd  the  coming  day, 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play, 

And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree, 

While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey'd ; 

And  many  a  gambol  frolick'd  o'er  the  ground, 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round; 

And  still  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tir'd, 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspir'd; 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown, 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down ; 

The  swain,  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 

While  secret  laughter  titter'd  round  the  place; 

The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love, 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove. 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village !  sports  like  these, 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please: 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed, 

These  were  thy  charms — but  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green : 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain ; 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But,  chok'd  with  sedges,  works  its  weary  way ; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  moldering  wall, 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 
Far,  far  away,  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay ; 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade ; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made; 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
When  once  destroy'd,  can  never  be  supplied. 


376  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiPd, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild ; 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  chang'd,  nor  wish'd  to  change  his  place ; 
Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashion'd  to  the  varying  hour; 
For  other  aims  his  heart  had  learnt  to  prize, 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  reliev'd  their  pain ; 
The  long-remember'd  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 
The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow'd ; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away ; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shoulder'd  his  crutch,  and  show'd  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleas'd  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn'd  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watch'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt  for  all ; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries, 
To  tempt  its  new-fledg'd  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reprov'd  each  dull  delay, 
Allur'd  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismay'd, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.    At  his  control, 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whisper'd  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place; 


GOLDSMITH.  377 


Truth  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double  sway, 

And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remain'd  to  pray. 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 

With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 

E'en  children  follow'd  with  endearing  wile, 

And  pluck'd  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 

His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  exprest, 

Their  welfare  pleas'd  him,  and  their  cares  distrest ; 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 

As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 

Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 

Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossom'd  furze  unprofitably  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school: 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view, 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew ; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn'd  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face; 
Full  well  they  laugh'd  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round 
Convey'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown'd: 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault; 
The  village  all  declar'd  how  much  he  knew, 
'T  was  certain  he  could  write,  and  cypher  too ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  e'en  the  story  ran— that  he  could  gauge : 
In  arguing  too,  the  parson  own'd  his  skill, 
For  e'en  though  vanquish'd,  he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length,  and  thund'ring  sound, 
Amaz'd  the  gazing  rustics  rang'd  around ; 
And  still  they  gaz'd,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

#  -::-  -::-  *  *  •*  * 

Ye  friends  to  trt.th,  ye  statesmen  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'T  is  yours  to  judge,  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  folly  haily  them  from  her  shore; 
32* 


378  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Hoards  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound, 

And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 

Yet  count  our  gains.     This  wealth  is  but  a  name, 

That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 

Not  so  the  loss.    The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 

Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied ; 

Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 

Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds : 

The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth, 

Has  robb'd  the  neighboring  fields  of  half  their  growth ; 

His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 

Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green; 

Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 

For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies. 

While  thus  the  land,  adorn'd  for  pleasure  all, 

In  barren  splendor  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorn'd  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrow'd  charm  that  dress  supplies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes; 
But  when  those  charms  aro  past,  for  charms  are  frail, 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress. 
Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betray'd ; 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  array'd, 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise, 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise ; 
While,  scourg'd  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land, 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band; 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 
The  country  blooms — a  garden,  and  a  grave. 

*  *  -x-  •*  *  -x- 

Good  Heaven!  what  sorrows  gloom'd  that  parting  day, 
That  call'd  them  from  their  native  walks  away; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  look'd  their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wish'd  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main; 
And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Return'd  and  wept,  and  still  return'd  to  weep. 
The  good  old  sire,  the  first  prepar'd  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  other's  woe ; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wish'd  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 


GOLDSMITH.  379 


His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 

The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 

Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 

And  left  a  lover's  for  her  father's  arms. 

With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 

And  blest  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose, 

And  kiss'd  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 

And  clasp'd  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear ; 

Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 

In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

As  a  writer  of  light  drama  Goldsmith  is  pronouncedly  amusing 
— decidedly  laughter-provoking.  His  plots  are  usually  strained 
and  unnatural,  and  his  characters  are  eccentrics  rather  than  normal 
men  and  women ;  but  there  are  always  present  in  his  plays  all  those 
ingenious  contrivances  of  situation,  of  individual  action,  and  of 
dialogue,  that  constitute  stage  effect. 

His  prose  writings  are  admirable  condensations  of  the  subject 
they  treat  of.  They  are  undoubtedly  superficial,  uncritical,  and 
inaccurate,  but  they  never  lack  attractiveness.  Dr.  Johnson's  pre- 
diction concerning  Goldsmith,  to  wit,  "  He  is  now  writing  a  Natural 
History,  and  will  make  it  as  agreeable  as  a  Persian  tale,"  was  veri- 
fied to  the  letter. 

In  fiction  Goldsmith  was  a  master  of  the  art  of  delineating  the 
amiable  weaknesses  and  foibles  of  human  nature.  Though  his 
satire  bore  a  stinging  rod  in  its  right  hand,  its  eyes  were  ever  moist 
with  sympathetic  tears. 

The  characteristics  of  his  poetry  were  simplicity,  chasteness  and 
sweetness  of  sentiment,  selectness  of  expression,  a  most  musical 
versification,  vivid  description  of  natural  scenery,  and  an  earnest, 
moral  purpose. 

"  Goldsmith,  both  in  verse  and  prose,  was  one  of  the  most  delight- 
ful writers  in  the  language.  His  verse  flows  like  a  limpid  stream. 
His  ease  is  quite  unconscious.  Everything  in  him  is  spontaneous, 
unstudied,  unaffected ;  yet  elegant,  harmonious,  graceful,  and  nearly 

faultless As  a  poet,  he  is  the  most  flowing  and  elegant  of  our 

versifiers  since  Pope,  with  traits  of  artless  nature  which  Pope  had 
not,  and  with  a  peculiar  felicity  in  his  turns  upon  words,  which  he 
constantly  repeated  with  delightful  effect."  * 

*  Essays  by  William  Hazlitt. 


THOMAS  GRAY. 


THOMAS  GRAY  was  born  in  Cornhill,  December  26,  1716. 
He  was  educated  at  Eton  and  at  Cambridge,  graduating  at  the 
latter  in  1738.  From  his  letters  written  while  at  college,  we 
learn  that  he  neglected  mathematical  studies  for  poetry,  classi- 
cal literature,  modern  languages,  history,  and  polite  learning 
generally. 

Shortly  after  completing  his  studies,  upon  the  invitation  of 
Horace  Walpole,  whose  acquaintance  he  made  at  Eton,  Gray 
succeeded  in  gratifying  his  observing  and  inquisitive  mind,  and 
his  aesthetic  tastes,  by  an  extensive  tour  through  the  most  inter- 
esting parts  of  France  and  Italy.  Works  of  art,  marvels  ir 
architecture,  music,  foreign  languages,  manners,  and  customs, 
all  became  ministers  to  his  susceptible  and  assimilating  nature, 
informing  his  mind,  enriching  his  fancy,  and  educating  his 
tastes.  His  beautiful  Alcaic  Ode  was  composed  during  these 
travels. 

On  his  return  home,  Gray  again  took  up  his  residence  at 
Cambridge,  with  the  professed  intention  of  studying  law.  For 
this  study,  however,  he  manifested  no  natural  liking  or  aptness; 
and  accordingly  we  find  him  employing  his  mind  mainly  in  the 
perusal  of  the  classic  authors,  in  making  translations  from  them, 
and  in  composing  Latin  epistles,  Greek  epigrams,  and  English 
odes. 

It  was  not  until  1747  that  Gray  first  ventured  before  the  pub- 
lic as  an  author,  when  he  published  the  Ode  on  a  Distant  Pros- 
pect of  Eton  College.  The  study  of  Greek  literature  seems' to 
have  engrossed  his  attention  for  the  next  two  years ;  when  he 
finished  what  had  been  commenced  a  number  of  years  before,  and 
what  has  immortalized  his  name — the  Elegy  Written  in  a  Coun- 
try Churchyard.  In  1757,  we  find  Gray  arrived  in  London  for 
the  purpose  of  publishing  his  Odes —  The  Bard,  The  Progress  of 
Poesy,  and  several  others. 

380 


GRAY.  381 


Upon  the  death  of  Gibber,  Poet-Laureate,  the  laureateship  was 
offered  to  Gray ;  but  he  declined  it  for  the  following  reasons : 
"The  office  itself,"  said  he,  "  has  always  humbled  the  possessor 
hitherto : — if  he  were  a  poor  writer,  by  making  him  more  con- 
spicuous ;  and  if  he  were  a  good  one,  by  setting  him  at  war  with 
the  little  fry  of  his  own  profession ;  for  there  are  poets  little 
enough,  even  to  envy  a  poet-laureate." 

In  1768,  Gray  had  bestowed  upon  him  by  the  Duke  of  Grafton 
the  Professorship  of  Modern  History  in  the  University ;  and  the 
next  year,  when  his  patron  was  elected  to  the  chancellorship,  he 
celebrated  the  event  by  a  fine  Ode,  which  was  set  to  music. 
When  we  add  that  his  quiet  and  studious  life  of  the  next  few 
years  was  varied  by  occasional  visits  of  recreation  to  his  friends 
in  various  rural  parts  of  England  and  Scotland,  and  that  he 
described  some  of  these  in  very  interesting  and  graphic  Letters, 
we  have  completed  the  comparatively  uneventful  story  of  our 
poet's  career.  He  died  July  30,  1771. 

"  Perhaps."  wrote  the  Rev.  Mr.  Temple,  "  Gray  was  the  most 
learned  man  in  Europe  :  he  was  equally  acquainted  with  the  ele- 
gant and  profound  parts  of  science,  and  that,  not  superficially,  but 
thoroughly.  He  knew  every  branch  of  history,  both  natural  and 
civil;  had  read  all  the  original  historians  of  England,  France, 
and  Italy ;  and  was  a  great  antiquarian.  Criticism,  metaphysics, 
morals,  politics,  made  a  principal  part  of  his  study.  Voyages  and 
Travels  of  all  sorts  were  his  favorite  amusements ;  and  he  had  a 
fine  taste  in  painting,  prints,  architecture,  and  gardening." 

As  our  sole  specimen  of  Gray's  poetry,  we  present  what  has  been 
called  by  Hazlitt  "  one  of  the  most  classical  productions  that  ever 
was  penned  by  a  refined  and  thoughtful  mind,  moralizing  on 
human  life ; " — the 

ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds: 


382  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tow'r, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wand'ring  near  her  secret  bow'r, 
Molest  her  ancient,  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mold'ring  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 
The  swallow  twitt'ring  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield. 
Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke : 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield! 
How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke ! 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  pow'r, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour — 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where  thro'  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust, 
Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 

Can  honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  flatt'ry  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 
Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire; 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd, 
Or  wak'd  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre : 


GRAY.  383 


But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Kich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll; 

Chill  penury  repress'd  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear: 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast, 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 
Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade:  nor  circumscrib'd  alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confin'd ; 

Forbade  to  wade  thro'  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind, 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quenx-h  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learn'd  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool  sequester'd  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  ev'n  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck'd, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unletter'd  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetful  ness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  ling'ring  look  behind? 


384  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires; 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonor'd  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate; 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  enquire  thy  fate, — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn : 

"There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Mutt'ring  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove; 

Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  craz'd  with  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless  love. 

"One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  custom'd  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  fav'rite  tree ; 

Another  came ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he : 

"  The  next,  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne : 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 

Grav'd  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 

THE  EPITAPH. 
Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth, 

A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown : 
Fair  Science  frown'd  not  on  his  humble  birth, 

And  Melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 
Heav'n  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send ; 

He  gave  to  mis'ry  (all  he  had)  a  tear, 

He  gained  from  heav'n  ('twas  all  he  wish'd)  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 
Or  draw  his  frail  lie;-;  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


GRAY.  385 


"  Of  all  English  poets  Gray  was  the  most  finished  artist.  He 
attained  the  highest  degree  of  splendor  of  which  poetical  style 
seems  to  be  capable.  If  Virgil  and  his  scholar  Racine  may  be 
allowed  to  have  united  somewhat  more  ease  with  their  elegance, 
no  other  poet  approaches  Gray  in  this  kind  of  excellence.  The 
degree  of  poetical  invention  diffused  over  such  a  style,  the  balance 
of  taste  and  of  fancy  necessary  to  produce  it,  and  the  art  with  which 
the  offensive  boldness  of  imagery  is  polished  away,  are  not  indeed 
always  perceptible  to  the  common  reader,  nor  do  they  convey  to 
any  mind  the  same  species  of  gratification  which  is  felt  from  the 
perusal  of  those  poems  which  seem  to  be  the  unpremeditated 
effusions  of  enthusiasm.  But  to  the  eye  of  the  critic,  and  more 
especially  to  the  artist,  they  afford  a  new  kind  of  pleasure,  not 
incompatible  with 'a  distinct  perception  of  the  art  employed,  and 
somewhat  similar  to  the  grand  emotions  excited  by  the  reflection 
on  the  skill  and  toil  exerted  in  the  construction  of  a  magnificent 
palace.  They  can  only  be  classed  among  the  secondary  pleasures 
of  poetry,  but  they  never  can  exist  without  a  great  degree  of  its 
higher  excellencies. 

"  Almost  all  his  poetry  was  lyrical — that  species  which,  issuing 
from  a  mind  in  the  highest  state  of  excitement,  requires  an  inten- 
sity of  feeling  which,  for  a  long  composition,  the  genius  of  no  poet 
could  support.  Those  who  complained  of  its  brevity  and  its  rapid- 
ity, only  confessed  their  own  inability  to  follow  the  movements  of 
poetical  inspiration.  Of  the  two  grand  attributes  of  the  Ode,  Dry- 
den  had  displayed  the  enthusiasm,  Gray  exhibited  the  magnifi- 
cence. He  is  also  the  only  modern  English  writer  whose  Latin 
Verses  deserve  general  notice,  but  we  must  lament  that  such  diffi- 
cult trifles  had  diverted  his  genius  from  its  natural  objects.  In  his 
Letters  he  has  shown  the  descriptive  power  of  a  poet,  and  in  new 
combinations  of  generally  familiar  words,  which  he  seems  to  have 
caught  from  Madame  de  Sevigne  (though  it  must  be  said  he  was 
somewhat  quaint),  he  was  eminently  happy.  It  may  be  added,  that 
he  deserves  the  comparatively  trifling  praise  of  having  been  the 
most  learned  poet  since  Milton."* 

*  Sketch  of  Gray's  poetical  character  by  Sir  James  Mackintosh. 
33  Z 


JAMES  THOMSON. 


JAMES  THOMSON  was  born  at  Ednam,  Roxburghshire,  Scotland, 
September  11, 1700.  The  first  three  years  of  his  schooling  were 
passed  at  the  grammar-school  in  Jedburgh,  whither  he  was  sent 
at  the  age  of  twelve.  In  1715  he  repaired  to  the  University  of 
Edinburgh,  and  there  completed  his  course,  with  the  intention 
of  entering  the  ministry.  But  the  five  ensuing  years  of  prepara- 
tion that  were  gone  through  with  as  a  student  of  divinity  availed 
nothing  for  accomplishing  the  intended  object ;  for  the  next  year 
(1725)  we  find  Thomson  in  London,  penniless,  and  all  but  friend- 
less, nevertheless  confident  that  work  and  glory  awaited  him  in 
the  metropolis. 

In  a  little  room  over  the  shop  of  one  Millan,  a  bookseller,  he 
completed,  in  1726,  Winter,  his  first  poem,  and  sold  it  to  his 
down-stairs  neighbor  for  the  suta.  of  three  guineas.  It  was  some- 
time before  even  this  paltry  sum  was  shown  not  to  have  been  an 
injudicious  investment  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Millan.  Accident 
bringing  the  poem  into  a  fair  circulation,  however,  it  was  fol- 
lowed the  next  year  by  Summer,  and  this,  in  1728,  by  Spring. 
As  an  indication  of  Thomson's  advancing  favor  in  the  estimation 
of  that  least  flattering  class  of  critics — the  publishers — it  should 
be  stated  that  he  received  fifty  guineas  for  Spring. 

In  1729  he  produced  Britannia,  which,  after  enjoying  a  brief 
popularity,  fell  into  a  state  of  extraordinary  neglect.  Hoping 
to  secure  both  greater  profit  and  fame  by  writing  for  the  stage, 
he  brought  out  in  1730  the  tragedy  of  Sophonisla.  Aristocratic 
patronage  temporarity  insured  it  a  flattering  success,  but  when 
this  was  withheld  the  play  soon  dropped  out  of  public  favor. 

Autumn  now  (1730)  made  its  appearance  in  company  with  its 
predecessors  of  a  similar  character,  the  four  being  styled  the 
/Seasons.  "  Thomson  was  at  the  height  of  his  fame.  Five  years 
before  he  was  a  stranger  in  the  thoroughfares  of  the  great  soli- 

386 


THOMSON.  387 


tude  ;  and  now,  having  successfully  accomplished  the  work  which 
first  introduced  him  to  notice,  few  amongst  his  contemporaries 
could  boast  so  brilliant  a  catalogue  of  friends  and  patrons."* 
Through  the  kindness  of  one  of  these  patrons,  he  was  enabled 
to  spend  about  a  year  visiting  points  of  interest  on  the  Conti- 
nent. The  fruits  of  his  political  observations  during  this  tour 
were  presented  in  1735-36  in  his  poem  of  Liberty.  "Liberty" 
says  Dr.  Johnson,  "  called  in  vain  upon  her  votaries  to  read  her 
praises,  and  reward  her  encomiast :  her  praises  were  condemned 
to  harbor  spiders  and  to  gather  dust :  none  of  Thomson's  per- 
formances were  so  little  regarded." 

Between  the  years  1738  and  1745,  our  poet  produced  his 
tragedies  of  Agamemnon,  Edward  and  Eleanor  a,  and  Tancred 
and  Sigismunda ;  the  last  of  which  is  regarded  as  the  best,  though 
none  of  them  ever  proved  successful  as  plays.  The  Castle  of 
Indolence,  which  had  occupied  his  muse  at  intervals  for  some 
fifteen  years,  was  published  in  1748.  "  It  originally  consisted 
of  merely  a  few  disconnected  stanzas,  intended  to  ridicule  in 
some  of  his  friends  the  love  of  idleness  with  which  they  were 
in  the  habit  of  charging  him  ;  but  the  personal  raillery  gradually 
expanded  into  a  moral  lesson,  until  the  poem  at  last  grew  to  its 
present  dimensions."  * 

Thomson's  tragedy  of  Coriolanus  was  not  published  until  after 
his  death,  which  event  occurred  August  27,  1748. 

EXTRACT  FROM  SPRING. 

From  the  moist  meadow  to  the  withered  hill, 
Led  by  the  breeze,  the  vivid  verdure  runs ; 
And  swells,  and  deepens,  to  the  cherished  eye. 
The  hawthorn  whitens ;  and  the  juicy  groves 
Put  forth  their  buds,  unfolding  by  degrees, 
Till  the  whole  leafy  forest  stands  displayed, 
In  full  luxuriance,  to  the  sighing  gales ; 
Where  the  deer  rustle  through  the  twining  brake, 
And  the  birds  sing  concealed.    At  once,  arrayed 
In  all  the  colors  of  the  flushing  year 
By  Nature's  swift  and  secret  working  hand, 
The  garden  glows,  and  fills  the  liberal  air 
With  lavish  fragrance;  while  the  promised  fruit 

*  Memoir  by  Robert  Bell. 


388  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Lies  like  a  little  embryo,  unperceived, 
Within  its  crimson  folds. 

Now  from  the  town, 

Buried  in  smoke,  and  sleep,  and  noisome  damps, 
Oft  let  me  wander  o'er  the  dewy  fields, 
Where  freshness  breathes;  and  dash  the  trembling  drops 
From  the  bent  bush,  as  through  the  verdant  maze 
Of  sweet-briar  hedges  I  pursue  my  walk; 
Or  taste  the  smell  of  daisy;   or  ascend 
Some  eminence,  Augusta,  in  thy  plains, 
And  see  the  country,  far  diffused  around, 
One  boundless  blush,  one  white-empurpled  shower 
Of  mingled  blossoms :   where  the  raptured  eye 
Hurries  from  joy  to  joy ;  and,  hid  beneath 
The  fair  profusion,  yellow  Autumn  spies. 
*  *  *  *  #  * 

When  first  the  soul  of  love  is  sent  abroad, 
Warm  through  the  vital  air,  and  on  the  heart 
Harmonious  seizes,  the  gay  troops  begin, 
In  gallant  thought,  to  plume  the  painted  wing; 
And  try  again  the  long-forgotten  strain, 
At  first  faint-warbled.    But  no  sooner  grows 
The  soft  infusion  prevalent,  and  wide, 
Than,  all  alive,  at  once  their  joy  o'erflows 
In  music  unconfined.    Up  springs  the  lark, 
Shrill-voiced  and  loud,  the  messenger  of  morn : 
Ere  yet  the  shadows  fly,  he  mounted  sings 
Amid  the  dawning  clouds,  and  from  their  haunts 
Calls  up  the  tuneful  nations.    Every  copse 
Deep-tangled,  tree  irregular,  and  bush 
Bending  with  dewy  moisture,  o'er  the  heads 
.Of  the  coy  quiristers  that  lodge  within, 
Are  prodigal  of  harmony. 

The  thrush, 

And  woodlark,  o'er  the  kind-contending  throng 
Superior  heard,  run  through  the  sweetest  length 
Of  notes;  when  listening  Philomela  deigns 
To  let  them  joy,  and  purposes,  in  thought 
Elate,  to  make  her  night  excel  their  day. 
The  blackbird  whistles  from  the  thorny  brake ; 
The  mellow  bullfinch  answers  from  the  grove; 
Nor  are  the  linnets,  o'er  the  flowering  furze 
Poured  out  profusely,  silent;  joined  to  these 
Innumerous  songsters,  in  the  freshening  shade 
Of  new-sprung  leaves,  their  modulations  mix 
Mellifluous.    The  jay,  the  rook,  the  daw, 


THOMSON.  389 


And  each  harsh  pipe,  discordant  heard  alone, 

Aid  the  full  concert;  while  the  stockdove  breathes 

A  melancholy  murmur  through  the  whole. 

EXTRACT  FROM  SUMMER. 
'T  is  raging  noon ;  and,  vertical,  the  sun 
Darts  on  the  head  direct  his  forceful  rays. 
O'er  heaven  and  earth,  far  as  the  ranging  eye 
Can  sweep,  a  dazzling  deluge  reigns ;  and  all 
From  pole  to  pole,  is  undistinguished  blaze. 
In  vain  the  sight,  dejected  to  the  ground, 
Stoops  for  relief;   thence  hot-ascending  steams 
And  keen  reflection  pain.    Deep  to  the  root 
Of  vegetation  parched,  the  cleaving  fields 
And  slippery  lawn  an  arid  hue  disclose, 
Blast  fancy's  bloom,  and  wither  even  the  soul. 

Echo  no  more  returns  the  cheerful  sound 
Of  sharpening  scythe;  the  mower,  sinking,  heaps 
O'er  him  the  humid  hay,  with  flowers  perfumed ; 
And  scarce  a  chirping  grasshopper  is  heard 
Through  the  dumb  mead.    Distressful  nature  pants. 
The  very  streams  look  languid  from  afar; 
Or,  through  the  unsheltered  glade,  impatient,  seem 
To  hurl  into  the  covert  of  the  grove 

Welcome,  ye  shades !  ye  bowery  thickets,  hail ! 
Ye  lofty  pines !  ye  venerable  oaks ! 
Ye  ashes  wild,  resounding  o'er  the  steep ! 
Delicious  is  your  shelter  to  the  soul, 
As  to  the  hunted  hart  the  sallying  spring, 
Or  stream  full-flowing,  that  his  swelling  sides 
Laves,  as  he  floats  along  the  herbaged  brink. 
Cool,  through  the  nerves,  your  pleasing  comfort  glides ; 
The  heart  beats  glad;  the  fresh  expanded  eye 
And  ear  resume  their  watch ;  the  sinews  knit ; 
And  life  shoots  swift  through  all  the  lightened  limbs. 

Around  the  adjoining  brook  that  purls  along 
The  vocal  grove,  now  fretting  o'er  a  rock, 
Now  scarcely  moving  through  a  reedy  pool, 
Now  starting  to  a  sudden  stream,  and  now 
Gently  diffused  into  a  limpid  plain, 
A  various  group  the  herds  and  flocks  compose, 
Rural  confusion!"  On  the  grassy  bank 
Some  ruminating  lie;  while  others  stand 
Half  in  the  flood,  and  often  bending  sip 
33* 


390  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

The  circling  surface.    In  the  middle  droops 
The  strong  laborious  ox,  of  honest  front, 
Which  incomposed  he  shakes ;  and  from  his  sides 
The  troublous  insects  lashes  with  his  tail, 
Returning  still.     Amid  his  subjects  safe, 
Slumbers  the  monarch-swain;   his  careless  arm 
Thrown  round  his  head,  on  downy  moss  sustained; 
Here  laid  his  scrip,  with  wholesome  viands  filled ; 
There,  listening  every  noise,  his  watchful  dog. 

EXTRACT  FROM  AUTUMN. 

But  see  the  fading  many-colored  -woods, 
Shade  deepening  over  shade,  the  country  round 
Imbrown ;  a  crowded  umbrage,  dusk,  and  dun, 
Of  every  hue  from  wan  declining  green 
To  sooty  dark.    There  now  the  lonesome  muse, 
Low -whispering,  lead  into  their  leaf-strown  walks ; 
And  give  the  Season  in  its  latest  view. 

Meantime,  light-shadowing  all,  a  sober  calm 
Fleeces  unbounded  ether ;  whose  least  wave 
Stands  tremulous,  uncertain  where  to  turn 
The  gentle  current ;  while,  illumined  wide, 
The  dewy-skirted  clouds  imbibe  the  sun, 
And  through  their  lucid  veil  his  softened  force 
Shed  o'er  the  peaceful  world.    Then  is  the  time 
For  those  whom  wisdom  and  whom  nature  charm 
To  steal  themselves  from  the  degenerate  crowd, 
And  soar  above  this  little  scene  of  things ; 
To  tread  low-thoughted  vice  beneath  their  feet, 
To  soothe  the  throbbing  passions  into  peace, 
And  woo  lone  quiet  in  her  silent  walks. 

Thus  solitary,  and  in  pensive  guise, 
Oft  let  me  wander  o'er  the  russet  mead, 
And  through  the  saddened  grove,  where  scarce  is  heard 
One  dying  strain  to  cheer  the  woodman's  toil. 
Haply  some  widowed  songster  pours  his  plaint, 
Far,  in  faint  warblings,  through  the  tawny  copse ; 
While  congregated  thrushes,  linnets,  larks, 
And  each  wild  throat,  whose  artless  strains  so  late 
Swelled  all  the  music  of  the  swarming  shades, 
Robbed  of  their  tuneful  souls,  now  shivering  sit 
On  the  dead  tree,  a  dull  despondent  flock ! 
With  not  a  brightness  waving  o'er  their  plumes, 
And  nought  save  chattering  discord  in  their  note. 


THOMSON.  391 


Oh,  let  not,  aimed  from  some  inhuman  eye, 
The  gun  the  music  of  the  coming  year 
Destroy ;  and  harmless,  unsuspecting  harm, 
Lay  the  weak  tribes,  a  miserable  prey, 
In  mingled  murder,  fluttering  on  the  ground ! 

The  pale  descending  year,  yet  pleasing  still, 
A  gentler  mood  inspires ;  for  now  the  leaf 
Incessant  rustles  from  the  mournful  grove — 
Oft  startling  such  as,  studious,  walk  below, 
And  slowly  circles  through  the  waving  air. 
But  should  a  quicker  breeze  amid  the  boughs 
Sob,  o'er  the  sky  the  leafy  deluge  streams ; 
Till  choked,  and  matted  with  the  dreary  shower, 
The  forest- walks,  at  every  rising  gale, 
Roll  wide  £he  withered  waste,  and  whistle  bleak. 
Fled  is  the  blasted  verdure  of  the  fields ; 
And,  shrunk  into  their  beds,  the  flowery  race 
Their  sunny  robes  resign.    Even  what  remained 
Of  bolder  fruits  falls  from  the  naked  tree; 
And  woods,  fields,  gardens,  orchards,  all  around 
The  desolated  prospect  thrills  the  soul. 

EXTRACT  FROM  WINTER. 

The  keener  tempests  come:   and  fuming  dun 
From  all  the  livid  east,  or  piercing  north, 
Thick  clouds  ascend — in  whose  capacious  womb 
A  vapory  deluge  lies,  to  snow  congealed. 
Heavy  they  roll  their  fleecy  world  along ; 
And  the  sky  saddens  with  the  gathered  storm. 
Through  the  hushed  air  the  whitening  shower  descends, 
At  first  thin  wavering;  till  at  last  the  flakes 
Fall  broad,  and  wide,  and  fast,  dimming  the  day 
With  a  continual  flow.    The  cherished  fields 
Put  on  their  winter-robe  of  purest  white. 
'Tis  brightness  all;   save  where  the  new  snow  melth 
Along  the  mazy  current. 

Low,  the  woods 

Bow  their  hoar  head ;  and,  ere  the  languid  sun 
Faint  from  the  west  emits  his  evening  ray, 
Earth's  universal  face,  deep-hid  and  chill, 
Is  one  wild  dazzling  waste,  that  buries  wide 
The  works  of  man.     Drooping,  the  laborer-ox 
Stands  covered  o'er  with  snow,  and  then  demands 
The  fruit  of  all  his  toil. 


392  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


The  fowls  of  heaven, 

Tamed  by  the  cruel  season,  crowd  around 
The  winnowing  store,  and  claim  the  little  boon 
Which  Providence  assigns  them.     One  alone, 
The  redbreast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods, 
Wisely  regardful  of  the  embroiling  sky, 
In  joyless  fields  and  thorny  thickets  leaves 
His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted  man 
His  annual  visit.    Half  afraid,  he  first 
Against  the  window  beats ;   then,  brisk,  alights 
On  the  warm  hearth ;  then,  hopping  o'er  the  floor, 
Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance, 
And  pecks,  and  starts,  and  wonders  where  he  is — 
Till,  more  familiar  grown,  the  table-crumbs 
Attract  his  slender  feet. 

The  floodless  wilds 

Pour  forth  their  brown  inhabitants.    The  hare, 
Though  timorous  of  heart,  and  hard  beset 
By  death  in  various  forms,  dark  snarer,  and  dogs, 
And  more  unpitying  men,  the  garden  seeks, 
Urged  on  by  fearless  want.    The  bleating  kind 
Eye  the  black  heaven,  and  next  the  glistening  earth, 
With  looks  of  dumb  despair ;  then,  sad  dispersed, 
Dig  for  the  withered  herb  through  heaps  of  snow. 

And  now  we  present,  entire,  the  Hymn,  which  supplemented 
the  foregoing  poems  upon  their  joint  appearance  as  the  Seasons  : 

A  HYMN. 

These,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these, 
Are  but  the  varied  God.    The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  Thee.    Forth  in  the  pleasing  Spring 
Thy  beauty  walks,  Thy  tenderness  and  love. 
Wide  flush  the  fields;  the  softening  air  is  balm; 
Echo  the  mountains  round ;  the  forest  smiles ; 
And  every  sense,  and  every  heart,  is  joy. 
Then  comes  Thy  glory  in  the  Summer^  months, 
With  light  and  heat  refulgent.     Then  Thy  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swelling  year;  \ 
And  oft  Thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  speaks — 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve, 
By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow-whispering  gales. 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  Autumn  unconfined, 
And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  lives. 
In  Winter,  awful  Thou !  with  clouds  and  storms 


THOMSON.  393 


Around  Thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tempest  rolled, 
Majestic  darkness!   on  the  whirlwind's  wing 
Riding  sublime,  Thou  bidd'st  the  world  adore, 
And  humblest  Nature  with  Thy  northern  blast. 

Mysterious  round !  what  skill,  what  force  divine, 
Deep  felt,  in  these  appear !   a  simple  train, 
Yet  so  delightful  mixed,  with  such  kind  art, 
Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined ; 
Shade,  unperceived,  so  softening  into  shade ; 
And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole ; 
That,  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish  still. 
But  wandering  oft,  with  brute  unconscious  gaze, 
Man  marks  not  Thee,  marks  not  the  mighty  hand, 
That,  ever  busy,  wheels  the  silent  spheres ; 
Works  in  the  secret  deep ;   shoots,  steaming,  thence 
The  fair  profusion  that  o'erspreads  the  Spring ; 
Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming  day  ; 
Feeds  every  creature;  hurls  the  tempest  forth; 
And,  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change  revolves, 
With  transport  touches  all  the  springs  of  life. 

Nature,  attend !  join  every  living  soul, 
Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky, 
In  adoration  join ;  and,  ardent,  raise 
Ope  general  song!     To  Him,  ye  vocal  gales, 
Breathe  soft,  whose  Spirit  in  your  freshness  breathes: 
Oh  talk  of  Him  in  solitary  glooms! 
Where,  o'er  the  rock,  the  scarcely  waving  pine 
Fills  the  brown  shade  with  a  religious  awe. 
And  ye,  whose  bolder .  note  is  heard  afar, 
Who  shake  the  astonished  world,  lift  high  to  heaven 
The  impetuous  song,  and  say  from  whom  you  rage. 
His  praise,  ye  brooks,  attune,  ye  trembling  rills; 
And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along. 
Ye  headlong  torrents,  rapid,  and  profound ; 
Ye  softer  floods,  that  lead  the  humid  maze 
Along  the  vale ;  and  thou,  majestic  main, 
A  secret  world  of  wonders  in  thyself, 
Sound  His  stupendous  praise — whose  greater  voice 
Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roarings  fall. 

Soft-roll  your  incense,  herbs,  and  fruits,  and  flowers, 
In  mingled  clouds  to  Him — whose  sun  exalts, 
Whose  breath  perfumes  you,  and  whose  pencil  paints. 
Ye  forests  bend,  ye  harvests  wave,  to  Him ; 
Breathe  your  still  song  into  the  reaper's  heart, 


394  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

As  home  he  goes  beneath  the  joyous  moon. 

Ye  that  keep  watch  in  heaven,  as  earth  asleep 

Unconscious  lies,  effuse  your  mildest  beams, 

Ye  constellations,  while  your  angels  strike, 

Amid  the  spangled  sky,  the  silver  lyre. 

Great  source  of  day!  best  image  here  below 

Of  thy  Creator,  ever  pouring  wide, 

From  world  to  world,  the  vital  ocean  round, 

On  Nature  write  with  every  beam  His  praise. 

The  thunder  rolls :   be  hushed  the  prostrate  world ; 

While  cloud  to  cloud  returns  the  solemn  hymn. 

Bleat  out  afresh,  ye  hills ;  ye  mossy  rocks, 
Retain  the  sound:   the  broad  responsive  low, 
Ye  valleys,  raise ;  for  the  Great  Shepherd  reigns ; 
And  his  unsuffering  kingdom  yet  will  come. 
Ye  woodlands  all,  awake :  a  boundless  song 
Burst  from  the  groves ;  and  when  the  restless  day, 
Expiring,  lays  the  warbling  world  asleep, 
Sweetest  of  birds !  sweet  Philomela,  charm 
The  listening  shades,  and  teach  the  night  His  praise. 

Ye  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation  smiles, 
At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  and  tongue  of  all, 
Crown  the  great  hymn !  in  swarming  cities  vast, 
Assembled  men,  to  the  deep  organ  join 
The  long-resounding  voice,  oft-breaking  clear, 
At  solemn  pauses,  through  the  swelling  base ; 
And,  as  each  mingling  flame  increases  each, 
In  one  united  ardor  rise  to  heaven. 
Or  if  you  rather  choose  the  rural  shade, 
And  find  a  fane  in  every  sacred  grove; 
There  let  the  shepherd's  flute,  the  virgin's  lay, 
The  prompting  seraph,  and  the  poet's  lyre, 
Still  sing  the  God  of  Seasons,  as  they  roll. 
For  me,  when  I  forget  the  darling  theme, 
Whether  the  blossom  blows,  the  Summer-ray 
Eussets  the  plain,  inspiring  Autumn  gleams, 
Or  Winter  rises  in  the  blackening  earth, 
Be  my  tongue  mute — my  fancy  paint  no  more, 
And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat ! 

Should  fate  command  me  to  the  farthest  verge 
Of  the  green  earth,  to  distant  barbarous  climes, 
Eivers  unknown  to  song — where  first  the  sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting  beam 
Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles — 'tis  nought  to  me: 


THOMSON.  395 


Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt, 

In  the  void  waste  as  in  the  city  full ; 

And  where  He  vital  spreads  there  must  be  joy. 

When  even  at  last  the  solemn  hour  shall  come, 

And  wing  my  mystic  flight  to  future  worlds, 

I  cheerful  will  obey ;  there,  with  new  powers, 

Will  rising  wonders  sing;  I  cannot  go 

Where  Universal  Love  not  smiles  around, 

Sustaining  all  yon  orbs,  and  all  their  sons ; 

From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good, 

And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still, 

In  infinite  progression. — But  I  lose 

Myself  in  Him,  in  light  ineffable ! 

Come  then,  expressive  silence,  muse  His  praise. 

From   The  Castle  of  Indolence,  we  cite  the  following  verses, 
descriptive  of 

THE   CASTLE. 

The  doors,  that  knew  no  shrill  alarming  bell, 
Ne  cursed  knocker  plied  by  villain's  hand, 
Self-opened  into  halls,  where,  who  can  tell 
What  elegance  and  grandeur  wide  expand ; 
The  pride  of  Turkey  and  of  Persia  land? 
Soft  quilts  on  quilts,  on  carpets  carpets  spread, 
And  couches  stretched  around  in  seemly  band ; 
And  endless  pillows  rise  to  prop  the  head; 
So  that  each  spacious  room  was  one  full-swelling  bed; 

And  everywhere  huge  covered  tables  stood, 
With  wines  high-flavored  and  rich  viands  crowned: 
Whatever  sprightly  juice  or  tasteful  food 
On  the  green  bosom  of  this  earth  are  found, 
And  all  ocean  'genders  in  his  round, 
Some  hand  unseen  then  silently  displayed, 
Even  undemanded  by  a  sign  or  sound; 
You  need  but  wish,  and,  instantly  obeyed, 
Fair  ranged  the  dishes  rose,  and  thick  the  glasses  played. 

Here  freedom  reigned,  without  the  least  alloy ; 
Nor  gossip's  tale,  nor  ancient  maiden's  gall, 
Nor  saintly  spleen,  durst  murmur  at  our  joy, 
And  with  envenomed  tongue  our  pleasures  pall. 
For  why?    there  was  but  one  great  rule  for  all; 
To  wit,  that  each  should  work  his  own  desire, 
And  eat,  drink,  study,  sleep,  as  it  may  fall, 


396  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Or  melt  the  time  in  love,  or  wake  the  lyre, 
And  carol  what,  unbid,  the  muses  might  inspire. 

The  rooms  with  costly  tapestry  were  hung, 
Where  was  inwoven  many  a  gentle  tale, 
Such  as  of  old  the  rural  poets  sung, 
Or  of  Arcadian  or  Sicilian  vale; 
Reclining  lovers,  in  the  lonely  dale, 
Poured  forth  at  large  the  sweetly  tortured  heart ; 
Or,  sighing  tender  passion,  swelled  the  gale, 
And  taught  charmed  echo  to  resound  their  smart ; 
While  flocks,  woods,  streams  around,  repose,  and  peace  impart. 

Each  sound,  too,  here  to  languishment  inclined, 
Lulled  the  weak  bosom,  and  induced  ease ; 
Aerial  music  in  the  warbling  wind, 
At  distance  rising  oft,  by  small  degrees, 
Nearer  and  nearer  came,  till  o'er  the  trees 
It  hung,  and  breathed  such  soul-dissolving  airs, 
As  did,  alas !   with  soft  perdition  please  : 
Entangled  deep  in  its  enchanting  snares, 
The  listening  heart  forgot  all  duties  and  all  cares. 

A  certain  music,  never  known  before, 
Here  lulled  the  pensive,  melancholy  mind ; 
Full  easily  obtained.     Behoves  no  more, 
But  sidelong,  to  the  gently  waving  wind, 
To  lay  the  well  tuned  instrument  reclined ; 
From  which,  with  airy  flying  fingers  light, 
Beyond  each  mortal  touch  the  most  refined, 
The  god  of  winds  drew  sounds  of  deep  delight: 
Whence,  with  just  cause,  the  harp  of  Aeolus  it  hight. 

Ah,  me!  what  hand  can  touch  the  string  so  fine, 
Who  up  the  lofty  diapason  roll 
Such  sweet,  such  sad,  such  solemn  airs  divine, 
Then  let  them  down  again  into  the  soul! 
Now  rising  love  they  fanned ;  now  pleasing  dole 
They  breathed,  in  tender  musings  through  the  heart ; 
And  now  a  graver  sacred  strain  they  stole, 
As  when  seraphic  hands  a  hymn  impart : 
Wild  warbling  nature  all,  above  the  reach  of  art ! 

Near  the  pavilions  where  we  slept,  still  ran 
Soft  tinkling  streams,  and  dashing  waters  fell, 
And  sobbing  breezes  sighed,  and  oft  began 
(So  worked  the  wizard)  wintry  storms  to  swell, 
As  heaven  and  earth  they  would  together  mell ; 


THOMSON.  397 


At  doors  and  windows,  threatening,  seemed  to  call 
The  demons  of  the  tempest,  growling  fell, 
Yet  the  least  entrance  found  they  none  at  all : 
Whence  sweeter  grew  our  sleep,  secure  in  massy  hall. 

And  hither  Morpheus  sent  his  kindest  dreams, 
Raising  a  world  of  gayer  tinct  and  grace; 
O'er  which  were  shadowy  cast  elysian  gleams, 
That  played,  in  waving  lights,  from  place  to  place, 
And  shed  a  roseate  smile  on  Nature's  face. 
Not  Titian's  pencil  e'er  could  so  array, 
So  fleece  with  clouds  the  pure  ethereal  space; 
Ne  could  it  e'er  such  melting  forms  display, 
As  loose  on  flowery  beds  all  languishingly  lay. 

"  As  a  writer,  Thomson  is  entitled  to  one  praise  of  the  highest 
kind :  his  mode  of  thinking,  and  of  expressing  his  thoughts,  is 
original.  His  blank  verse  is  no  more  the  blank  verse  of  Milton, 
or  of  any  other  poet,  than  the  rhymes  of  Prior  are  the  rhymes  of 
Cowley.  His  numbers,  his  pauses,  his  diction,  are  of  his  own 
growth,  without  transcription,  without  imitation.  He  thinks  in  a 
peculiar  train,  and  he  thinks  always  as  a  man  of  genius;  he  looks 
round  on  Nature  and  on  life  with  the  eye  which  Nature  bestows 
only  on  a  poet ;  the  eye  that  distinguishes,  in  everything  presented 
to  its  view,  whatever  there  is  on  which  imagination  can  delight  to 
be  detained,  and  with  a  mind  that  once-  comprehends  the  vast  and 
attends  to  the  minute. 

"His  descriptions  of  extended  scenes  and  general  effects  bring 
before  us  the  whole  magnificence  of  Nature,  whether  pleasing  or 
dreadful.  The  gaiety  of  Spring,  the  splendor  of  Summer,  the  tran- 
quillity of  Autumn,  and  the  horror  of  Winter,  take  in  their  turns 
possession  of  the  mind.  The  poet  leads  us  through  the  appearances 
of  things  as  they  are  successively  varied  by  the  vicissitudes  of  the 
year,  and  imparts  to  us  so  much  of  his  own  enthusiasm,  that  our 
thoughts  expand  with  his  imagery,  and  kindle  with  his  sentiments. 

"  His  diction  is  in  the  highest  degree  florid  and  luxuriant,  such 
as  may  be  said  to  be  to  his  images  and  thoughts  '  both  their  lustre 
and  their  shade ; '  such  as  invest  them  with  splendor,  through 
which  perhaps  they  are  not  always  easily  discerned.  It  is  too 
exuberant,  and  sometimes  may  be_charged  with  filling  the  ear 
more  than  the  mind."* 

*  Dr.  Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Most  Eminent  English  Pods. 
34 


ALEXANDER    POPE. 


ALEXANDER  POPE  was  born  on  or  about  the  21st  of  May, 
1688,  in  Lombard  street,  London.  At  the  age  of  eight  he  began 
learning  the  rudiments  of  Greek  and  Latin  under  the  care  of 
the  family  priest,  and  afterwards  further  pursued  his  studies  at 
the  Catholic  seminary  at  Twyford,  and  at  a  school  in  London. 
On  the  removal  of  his  father  to  Binfield,  in  Windsor  Forest, 
our  poet,  though  but  twelve  years  old,  resolved  on  thoroughly 
educating  himself.  To  this  object  he  devoted  most  unremit- 
tingly the  next  seven  or  eight  years  of  his  life ;  rendering  into 
English  various  interesting  compositions  of  the  leading  Greek, 
Latin,  and  French  poets  and  prose-writers ;  studying  Tasso  and 
Ariosto  through  approved  translations,  and  reading  and  mem- 
orizing the  best  parts  of  Spenser,  Waller,  and  Dryden. 

Pope  began  writing  verses  at  a  very  early  age,  one  of  his  first 
effusions,  the  Ode  to  Solitude,  having  been  composed  when  he 
was  about  twelve  years  old.  When  between  thirteen  and  fif- 
teen he  wrote  an  epic  called  Alcander,  consisting  of  four  books, 
of  a  thousand  lines  each,  in  which  he  imitated  the  styles  of  all  his 
favorite  poets — Cowley,  Milton,  Spenser,  Statius,  Virgil,  Homer. 
His  Pastorate  were  written  at  sixteen,  though  their  publication 
was  delayed  for  several  years ;  and  his  Essay  on  Criticism  ap- 
peared when  he  was  only  twenty-one.  Hazlitt  pronounces  the 
latter  "a  double-refined  essence  of  wit  and' sense,"  and  adds, 
"  the  quantity  of  thought  and  observation  in  this  work,  for  so 
young  a  man  as  Pope  was  when  he  wrote  it,  is  wonderful : 
unless  we  adopt  the  supposition  that  most  men  of  genius  spend 
the  rest  of  their  lives  in  teaching  others  what  they  themselves 
have  learned  under  twenty.  The  conciseness  and  felicity  of 
the  expression  are  equally  remarkable." 

"  The  stealing  of  Miss  Belle  Fermor's  hair  by  Lord  Petre," 
says  Pope,  "  was  taken  too  seriously,  and  caused  an  estrange- 

398 


POPE.  399 

ment  between  the  two  families,  though  they  had  lived  so  long 
in  great  friendship  before.  A  common  acquaintance,  and  well- 
wisher  to  both,  desired  me  to  write  a  poem  to  make  a  jest  of  it, 
and  laugh  them  together  again.  It  was  with  this  view  that  I 
wrote  the  Rape  of  the  Lock,  which  was  well  received,  and  had 
its  effect  in  the  two  families."  It  was  published  anonymously 
in  1711,  and  at  that  time  consisted  of  only  350  lines  ;  but  it  was 
afterwards  (1714)  amplified  to  double  that  length,  and  was  em- 
bellished with  the  machinery  of  the  Sylphs. 

Hazlitt  says  of  this  poem  :  "  It  is  the  most  exquisite  specimen 
of  fillagree  work  ever  invented.  It  is  admirable  in  proportion 
as  it  is  made  of  nothing.  It  is  made  of  gauze  and  silver  span- 
gles. The  most  glittering  appearance  is  given  to  everything, — 
to  paste,  pomatum,  billet-doux,  and  patches.  Airs,  languid  airs 
breathe  around;  the  atmosphere  is  perfumed  with  affectation. 
A  toilette  is  described  with  the  solemnity  of  an  altar  raised  to 
the  goddess  of  vanity,  and  the  history  of  a  silver  bodkin  is 
given  with  all  the  pomp  of  heraldry.  No  pains  are  spared,  no 
profusion  of  ornament,  no  splendor  of  poetic  diction,  to  set  off 
the  meanest,  things.  You  hardly  know  whether  to  laugh  or  to 
weep.  It  is  the  triumph  of  insignificance,  the  apotheosis  of 
foppery  and  folly.  It  is  the  perfection  of  the  mock  heroic." 

The  Messiah,  The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul,  and  The 
Temple  of  Fame  first  appeared  in  1712,  and  also,  about  the 
same  year,  the  Elegy  to  the  Memory  of  an  Unfortunate  Lady. 
The  next  year  was  signalized  by  the  publication  of  Windsor 
Forest  and  the  Ode  on  St.  Cecilia  s  Day.  The  translation  of 
Homer's  Iliad  next  engaged  Pope's  energies.  He  says  of  it : 
uThe  Iliad  took  me  up  six  years;  and  during  that  time,  and 
particularly  the  first  part  of  it,  I  was  often  under  great  pain 
and  apprehension.  Though  I  conquered  the  thoughts  of  it  in 
the  day,  they  would  frighten  me  in  the  night.  When  I  fell  into 
the  method  of  translating  thirty  or  forty  verses  before  I  got  up, 
and  piddled  with  it  the  rest  of  the  morning,  it  went  on  easy 
enough  ;  and  when  I  was  thoroughly  got  into  the  way  of  it,  I 
did  the  rest  with  pleasure." 

In  1715  Pope  induced  his  parents  to  sell  their  property  at 
Binfield  and  remove  with  him  to  Twickenham.  Here  he  pur- 
chased a  delightful  villa  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames,  where  he 


400  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

resided  during  the  rest  of  his  life.  A  collection  of  his  miscel- 
laneous poems  was  brought  out  in  1717,  containing,  among 
others,  his  fine  and  eloquent  verses  entitled  Eloisa  to  Abelard. 

Pope's  next  achievement  was  the  translation  of  Homer's 
Odyssey,  which  was  given  to  the  public  in  the  years  1725-26. 
Four  of  the  books — the  1st,  4th,  19th,  and  20th — were  trans- 
lated by  Fenton  ;  eight— the  2d,  6th,  8th,  llth,  12th,  16th,  18th, 
and  23d — by  Broome,  and  the  remaining  twelve  by  Pope  him- 
self. The  Dunciad — a  withering  satire,  directed  against  his 
many  and  virulent  traducers,  was  published  in  its  first  perfect 
form  in  1729. 

Of  Pope's  various  Essays,  the  most  celebrated  is  the  Essay  on 
Man.  It  was  issued  in  four  separate  epistles,  the  first  of  which 
appeared  in  1732.  The  Universal  Prayer  followed  in  1738. 
limitations  of  the  Epistles  and  Satires  of  Horace  and  of  Donne, 
Epitaphs,  Epistles,  and  Miscellanies  filled  up  the  remaining 
years  of  our  poet's  life — a  life  which,  always  frail  and  full  of 
pain,  closed  May  30,  1744. 

Pope's  acquaintance  with  the  prominent  men  of  his  time, 
political  as  well  as  literary,  was  extensive ;  Sir  Wm.  Trumbull, 
Earl  of  Halifax,  Wycherley,  Addison,  Steele,  Gay,  Tickell, 
Swift,  Parnell,  Arbuthnot,  Atterbury,  Harley,  Lord  Boling- 
broke,  Congreve,  Walpole,  the  painter  Jervas,  and  others 
scarcely  less  noted,  being  among  the  choicest  of  his  friends. 
Of  his  lady  friends,  Martha  and  Teresa  Blount  and  Lady  Mon- 
tague were  the  most  intimate. 

MESSIAH,  A   SACRED  ECLOGUE: 
IN   IMITATION   OP   VIRGIL'S   POLLIO. 

Ye  nymphs  of  Solyma!  begin  the  song: 
To  heavenly  themes  sublimer  strains  belong. 
The  mossy  fountains,  and  the  silvan  shades, 
The  dreams  of  Pindus  and  the  Aonian  maids, 
Delight  no  more — O  Thou  my  voice  inspire 
Who  touched  Isaiah's  hallowed  lips  with  fire! 

Rapt  into  future  times,  the  bard  begun : 
A  Virgin  shall  conceive,  a  Virgin  bear  a  Son ! 
From  Jesse's  root  behold  a  branch  arise, 
Whose  sacred  flower  with  fragrance  fills  the  skies: 
The  ethereal  spirit  o'er  its  leaves  shall  move, 
And  on  its  top  descends  the  mystic  dove. 


POPE.  401 


Ye  heavens !   from  high  the  dewy  nectar  pour, 
And  in  soft  silence  shed  the  kindly  shower ! 
The  sick  and  weak  the  healing  plant  shall  aid, 
From  storms  a  shelter,  and  from  heat  a  shade. 
All  crimes  shall  cease,  and  ancient  fraud  shall  fail ; 
Returning  Justice  lift  aloft-  her  scale ; 
Peace  o'er  the  world  her  olive  wand  extend, 
And  white-robed  Innocence  from  heaven  descend. 
Swift  fly  the  years,  and  rise  the  expected  morn ! 
Oh,  spring  to  light,  auspicious  Babe,  be  born ! 
See  Nature  hastes  her  earliest  wreaths  to  bring, 
With/ all  the  incense  of  the  breathing  spring: 
See  lofty  Lebanon  his  head  advance, 
See  nodding  forests  on  the  mountains  dance: 
See  spicy  clouds  from  lowly  Saron  rise, 
And  Carmel's  flowery  top  perfumes  the  skies ! 
Hark !   a  glad  voice  the  lonely  desert  cheers ; 
Prepare  the  way !  a  God,  a  God  appears ; 
A  God,  a  God !  the  vocal  hills  reply, 
The  rocks  proclaim  the  approaching  Deity. 
Lo,  earth  receives  him  from  the  bending  skies ! 
Sink  down,  ye  mountains,  and,  ye  valleys,  rise; 
With  heads  declined,  ye  cedars,  homage  pay ; 
Be  smooth,  ye  rocks ;  ye  rapid  floods,  give  way ; 
The  Saviour  comes !  by  ancient  bards  foretold ! 
Hear  him,  ye  deaf,  and  all  ye  blind,  behold ! 
He  from  thick  films  shall  purge  the  visual  ray, 
And  on  the  sightless  eyeball  pour  the  day: 
'Tis  he  the  obstructed  paths  of  sound  shall  clear, 
And  bid  new  music  charm  the  unfolding  ear: 
The  dumb  shall  sing,  the  lame  his  crutch  forego, 
And  leap  exulting  like  the  bounding  roe. 
No  sigh,  no  murmur  the  wide  world  shall  hear, 
From  every  face  he  wipes  off  every  tear. 
In  adamantine  chains  shall  Death  be  bound, 
And  Hell's  grim  tyrant  feel  the  eternal  wound. 
As  the  good  shepherd  tends  his  fleecy  care, 
Seeks  freshest  pasture,  and  the  purest  air, 
Explores  the  lost,  the  wandering  sheep  directs, 
By  day  o'ersees  them,  and  by  night  protects, 
The  tender  lambs  he  raises  in  his  arms, 
Feeds  from  his  hand,  and  in  his  bosom  warms; 
Thus  shall  mankind  his  guardian  care  engage, 
The  promised  Father  of  the  future  age. 
No  more  shall  nation  against  nation  rise, 
Nor  ardent  warriors  meet  with  hateful  eyes, 
34*  2A 


402  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Nor  fields  with  gleaming  steel  be  covered  o'er, 

The  brazen  trumpets  kindle  rage  no  more; 

But  useless  lances  into  scythes  shall  bend, 

And  the  broad  falchion  in  a  ploughshare  end. 

Then  palaces  shall  rise ;   the  joyful  son 

Shall  finish  what  his  short-lived  sire  begun; 

Their  vines  a  shadow  to  their  race  shall  yield, 

And  the  same  hand  that  sow'd,  shall  reap  the  field. 

The  swain,  in  barren  deserts  with  surprise 

See  lilies  spring,  and  sudden  verdure  rise ; 

And  start,  amidst  the  thirsty  wilds,  to  hear 

New  falls  of  water  murmuring  in  his  ear. 

On  rifted  rocks,  the  dragon's  late  abodes, 

The  green  reed  trembles,  and  the  bulrush  nods. 

Waste  sandy  valleys,  once  perplex VI  with  thorn, 

The  spiry  fir  and  shapely  box  adorn ; 

To  leafless  shrubs  the  flowering  palms  succeed, 

And  odorous  myrtle  to  the  noisome  weed. 

The  lambs  with  wolves  shall  graze  the  verdant  mead, 

And  boys  in  flowery  bands  the  tiger  lead ; 

The  steer  and  lion  at  one  crib  shall  meet, 

And  harmless  serpents  lick  the  pilgrim's  feet. 

The  smiling  infant  in  his  hand  shall  take 

The  crested  basilisk  and  speckled  snake, 

Pleased  the  green  lustre  of  the  scales  survey, 

And  with  their  forky  tongue  shall  innocently  play. 

Rise,  crown'd  with  light,  imperial  Salem,  rise! 

Exalt  thy  towery  head,  and  lift  thy  eyes ! 

See,  a  long  race  thy  spacious  courts  adorn ; 

See  future  sons,  and  daughters  yet  unborn, 

In  crowding  ranks  on  every  side  arise, 

Demanding  life,  impatient  for  the  skies! 

See  barbarous  nations  at  thy  gates  attend, 

Walk  in  thy  light,  and  in  thy  temple  bend ; 

See  thy  bright  altars  throng'd  with  prostrate  kings, 

And  heap'd  with  products  of  Sabean  springs, 

For  thee  Idume's  spicy  forests  blow, 

And  seeds  of  gold  in  Ophir's  mountains  glow. 

See  heaven  its  sparkling  portals  wide  display, 

And  break  upon  thee  in  n  flood  of  day. 

No  more  the  rising  sun  shall  gild  the  morn, 

Nor  evening  Cynthia  fill  her  silver  horn; 

But  lost,  dissolved  in  thy  superior  rays, 

One  tide  of  glory,  one  unclouded  blaze 

O'erflow  thy  courts;  the  Light  himself  shall  shine 

Reveal'd,  and  God's  eternal  day  be  thine! 


POPE.  403 


The  seas  shall  waste,  the  skies  in  smoke  decay, 
Rocks  fall  to  dust,  and  mountains  melt  away ; 
But  fix'd  his  word,  his  saving  power  remains ; 
Thy  realm  forever  lasts,  thy  own  MESSIAH  reigns! 

From  The  Rape  of  the  Lock,  we  select  Canto  Third. 

Close  by  those  meads,  forever  crown'd  with  flowers, 
Where  Thames  with  pride  surveys  his  rising  towers, 
There  stands  a  structure  of  majestic  frame, 
Which  from  the  neighboring  Hampton  takes  its  name. 
Here  Britain's  statesmen  oft  the  fall  foredoom 
Of  foreign  tyrants,  and  of  nymphs  at  home ; 
Here  thou,  great  Anna!   whom  three  realms  obey, 
Dost  sometimes  counsel  take — and  sometimes  tea. 

Hither  the  heroes  and  the  nymphs  resort, 
To  taste  awhile  the  pleasures  of  a  court; 
In  various  talk  the  instructive  hours  they  pass'd 
Who  gave  the  ball,  or  paid  the  visit  last ; 
One  speaks  the  glory  of  the  British  Queen, 
And  one  describes  a  charming  Indian  screen ; 
A  third  interprets  motions,  looks,  and  ey<?s ; 
At  every  word  a  reputation  dies. 
Snuff,  or  the  fan,  supplies  each  pause  of  chat, 
With  singing,  laughing,  ogling,  and  all  that. 

Meanwhile,  declining  from  the  noon  of  day, 
The  sun  obliquely  shoots  his  burning  ray : 
The  hungry  judges  soon  the  sentence  sign, 
And  wretches  hang  that  jurymen  may  dine; 
The  merchant  from  the  Exchange  returns  in  peace, 
And  the  long  labors  of  the  toilet  cease. 
Belinda  now,  whom  thirst  of  fame  invites, 
Burns  to  encounter  two  adventurous  knights, 
At  ombre  singly  to  decide  their  doom; 
And  swells  her  breast  with  conquests  yet  to  come. 
Straight  the  three  bands*  prepare  in  arms  to  join, 
Each  band  the  number  of  the  sacred  Nine. 
Soon  as  she  spreads  her  hand,  the  aerial  guard 
Descend,  and  sit  on  each  important  card : 
First  Ariel  perch 'd  upon  a  Matadore, 
Then  each  according  to  the  rank  they  bore; 
For  sylphs,  yet  mindful  of  their  ancient  race, 
Are,  as  when  women,  wondrous  fond  of  place. 


*  Of  guardian  sylphs. 


404  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Lo!  the  board  with  cups  and  spoons  is  crown'd, 
The  berries  crackle,  and  the  mill  turns  round ; 
On  shining  altars  of  Japan  they  raise 
The  silver  lamp ;  the  fiery  spirits  blaze : 
From  silver  spouts  the  grateful  liquors  glide, 
While  China's  earth  receives  the  smoking  tide: 
At  once  they  gratify  their  scent  and  taste, 
And  frequent  cups  prolong  the  rich  repast. 
Straight  hover  round  the  fair  her  airy  band; 
Some,  as  she  sipp'd,  the  fuming  liquor  fann'd, 
Some  o'er  her  lap  their  careful  plumes  display'd, 
Trembling,  and  conscious  of  the  rich  brocade. 
Coffee  (which  makes  the  politician  wise, 
And  see  through  all  things  with  his  half-shut  eyes) 
Sent  up  in  vapors  to  the  Baron's  brain 
New  stratagems,  the  radiant  Lock  to  gain. 
Ah,  cease,  rash  youth !   desist  ere  't  is  too  late, 
Fear  the  just  gods,  and  think  of  Scylla's  fate ! 
Changed  to  a  bird,  and  sent  to  flit  in  air, 
She  dearly  pays  for  Nisus'  injured  hair! 

But  when  to  mischief  mortals  bend  their  will, 
How  soon  they  find  fit  instruments  of  ill ! 
Just  then  Clarissa  drew,  with  tempting  grace, 
A  two-edged  weapon  from  her  shining  case : 
So  ladies  in  romance  assist  their  knight, 
Present  the  spear,  and  arm  him  for  the  fight. 
He  takes  the  gift  with  reverence,  and  extends 
The  little  engine  on  his  fingers'  ends; 
This  just  behind  Belinda's  neck  he  spread, 
As  o'er  the  fragrant  steams  she  bends  her  head. 
Swift  to  the  Lock  a  thousand  sprites  repair, 
A  thousand  wings,  by  turns,  blow  back  the  hair ; 
And  thrice  they  twitch'd  the  diamond  in  her  ear; 
Thrice  she  look'd  back,  and  thrice  the  foe  drew  near. 
Just  in  that  instant  anxious  Ariel  sought 
The  close  recesses  of  the  virgin's  thought: 
As  on  the  nosegay  in  her  breast  reclined, 
He  watch'd  the  ideas  rising  in  her  mind, 
Sudden  he  view'd,  in  spite  of  all  her  art, 
An  earthly  lover  lurking  at  her  heart. 
Amazed,  confused,  he  found  his  power  expired, 
Resign'd  to  fate,  and  with  a  sigh  retired. 

The  peer  now  spreads  the  glittering  forfex  wide, 
To  inclose  the  Lock ;  now  joins  it,  to  divide. 
Even  then,  before  the  fatal  engine  closed, 
A  wretched  sylph  too  fondly  interposed; 


.POPE.  405 


Fate  urged  the  shears,  and  cut  the  sylph  in  twain, 
(But  airy  substance  soon  unites  again;) 
The  meeting  points  the  sacred  hair  dissever 
From  the  fair  head,  for  ever,  and  for  ever ! 

Then  flash'd  the  living  lightning  from  her  eyes, 
And  screams  of  horror  rend  the  affrighted  skies; 
Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  heaven  are  cast, 
When  husbands,  or  when  lap-dogs,  breathe  their  last ; 
Or  when  rich  China  vessels,  fallen  from  high, 
In  glittering  dust  and  painted  fragments  lie! 

Let  wreaths  of  triumph  now  thy  temples  twine, 
(The  victor  cried,)  the  glorious  prize  is  mine! 
While  fish  in  streams,  or  birds  delight  in  air, 
Or  in  a  coach-and-six  the  British  fair, 
As  long  as  Atalantis  shall  be  read, 
Or  the  small  pillow  grace  a  lady's  bed, 
While  visits  shall  be  paid  on  solemn  days, 
When  numerous  wax-lights  in  bright  order  blaze, 
While  nyrnphs  take  treats,  or  assignations  give, 
So  long  my  honor,  name,  and  praise  shall  live ! 
What  time  would  spare,  from  steel  receives  its  date, 
And  monuments,  like  men,  submit  to  fate ! 
Steel  could  the  labor  of  the  gods  destroy, 
And  strike  to  dust  the  imperial  towers  of  Troy; 
Steel  could  the  works  of  mortal  pride  confound, 
And  hew  triumphal  arches  to  the  ground. 
What  wonder  then,  fair  nymph !  thy  hairs  should  feel 
The  conquering  force  of  unresisted  steel? 

The  following  extracts  we  make  from  An  Essay  on  Man: 

Heaven  from  all  creatures  hides  the  book  of  fate, 
All  but  the  page  prescribed,  their  present  state : 
From  brutes  what  men,  from  men  what  spirits  know : 
Or  who  could  suffer  being  here  below? 
The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-day, 
Had  he  thy  reason,  would  he  skip  and  play? 
Pleased  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flowery  food, 
And  licks  the  hand  just  raised  to  shed  his  blood. 
Ohr  blindness  to  the  future !   kindly  given, 
That  each  may  fill  the  circle  mark'd  by  Heaven: 
Who  sees  with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 
A  hero  perish,  or  a  sparrow  fall, 
Atoms  or  systems  into  ruin  hurl'd, 
And  now  a  bubble  burst,  and  now  a  world. 

Hope  humbly  then;  with  trembling  pinions  soar; 
Wait  the  great  teacher  Death ;  and  God  adore. 


406  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


"What  future  bliss,  he  gives  not  thee  to  know, 
But  gives  that  hope  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 
Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast: 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blest. 
The  soul,  uneasy  and  confined,  from  home, 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come. 

Lo,  the  poor  Indian !    whose  untutor'd  rnind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  him  in  the  wind ; 
His  soul,  proud  science  never  taught  to  stray 
Far  as  the  solar  walk,  or  milky  way ; 
Yet  simple  nature  to  his  hope  has  given, 
Behind  the  cloud-topp'd  hill,  an  humbler  heaven ; 
Some  safer  world,  in  depth  of  woods  embraced, 
Some  happier  island  in  the  watery  waste, 
Where  slaves  once  more  their  native  land  behold, 
No  fiends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst  for  gold : 
To  be,  contents  his  natural  desire, 
He  asks  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  fire ; 
But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky, 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company. 
*.•*.*-...*••.•*—•*,'»'« 

Whate'er  the  passion,  knowledge,  fame,  or  pelf, 
Not  one  will  change  his  neighbor  with  himself. 
The  learn'd  is  happy  nature  to  explore, 
The  fool  is  happy  that  he  knows  no  more ; 
The  rich  is  happy  in  the  plenty  given, 
The  poor  contents  him  with  the  care  of  Heaven. 
See  the  blind  beggar  dance,  the  cripple  sing, 
The  sot  a  hero,  lunatic  a  king ; 
The  starving  chemist  in  his  golden  views 
Supremely  blest,  the  poet  in  his  muse. 

See  some  strange  comfort  every  state  attend, 
And  pride  bestow'd  on  all,  a  common  friend : 
See  some  fit  passion  every  age  supply, 
Hope  travels  through,  nor  quits  us  when  we  die. 

Behold  the  child,  by  nature's  kindly  law, 
Pleased  with  a  rattle,  tickled  with  a  straw : 
Some  livelier  plaything  gives  his  youth  delight, 
A  little  louder,  but  as  empty  quite : 
Scarfs,  garters,  gold,  amuse  his  riper  stage, 
And  beads  and  prayer-books  are  the  toys  of  age: 
Pleased  with  this  bauble  still,  as  that  before, 
Till  tired  he  sleeps,  and  life's  poor  play  is  o'er. 

Meanwhile  opinion  gilds  with  varying  rays 
Those  painted  clouds  that  beautify  our  days ; 
Each  want  of  happiness  by  hope  supplied, 


POPE.  407 


And  each  vacuity  of  sense  by  pride : 

These  build  as  fast  as  knowledge  can  destroy  j 

In  folly's  cup  still  laughs  the  bubble,  joy ; 

One  prospect  lost,  another  still  we  gain ; 

And  not  a  vanity  is  given  in  vain ; 

Even  mean  self-love  becomes,  by  force  divine, 

The  scale  to  measure  others'  wants  by  thine. 

See !   and  confess,  one  comfort  still  must  rise ; 

'Tis  this, — Though  man's  a  fool,  yet  GOD  is  WISE. 

#          .*'.#...#.*..,*....* 

What  nothing  earthly  gives,  or  can  destroy, 
The  soul's  calm  sunshine,  and  the  heartfelt  joy, 
Is  virtue's  prize:    A  better  would  you  fix, 
Then  give  Humility  a  coach  and  six, 
Justice  a  conqueror's  sword,  or  Truth  a  gown, 
Or  Public  Spirit  its  great  curse,  a  crown. 
Weak,  foolish  man !   will  Heaven  reward  us  there 
With  the  same  trash  mad  mortals  wish  for  here? 
The  boy  and  man  an  individual  makes, 
Yet  sigh'st  thou  now  for  apples  and  for  cakes? 
Go,  like  the  Indian,  in  another  life 
Expect  thy  dog,  thy  bottle,  and  thy  wife : 
As  well  as  dream  such  trifles  are  assign'd, 
As  toys  and  empires,  for  a  godlike  mind. 
Rewards,  that  either  would  to  virtue  bring 
No  joy,  or  be  destructive  of  the  thing: 
How  oft  by  these  at  sixty  are  undone 
The  virtues  of  a  saint  at  twenty-one! 
To  whom  can  riches  give  repute,  or  trust, 
Content,  or  pleasure,  but  the  good  and  just? 
Judges  and  senates  have  been  bought  for  gold, 
Esteem  and  love  were  never  to  be  sold. 
Oh,  fool !  to  think  God  hates  the  worthy  mind, 
The  lover  and  the  love  of  human-kind, 
Whose  life  is  healthful,  and  whose  conscience  clear, 
Because  he  wants  a  thousand  pounds  a  year. 

Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise; 
Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honor  lies. 
Fortune  in  men  has  some  small  difference  made, 
One  flaunts  in  rags,  one  flutters  in  brocade ; 
The  cobbler  apron'd,  and  the  parson  gown'd, 
The  friar  hooded,  and  the  monarch  crown'd. 
"What  differ  more  (you  cry)  than  crown  and  cowl?" 
I  '11  tell  you,  friend !   a  wise  man  and  a  fool. 
You  '11  find,  if  once  the  monarch  acts  the  monk, 
Or,  cobbler-like,  the  parson  will  be  drunk, 


408  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Worth  makes  the  man,  and  want  of  it  the  fellow ; 
The  rest  is  all  but  leather  or  prunella. 
****** 

What's  fame?  a  fancied  life  in  other's  breath, 
A  thing  beyond  us,  e'en  before  our  death. 
Just  what  you  hear,  you  have,  and  what 's  unknown 
The  same  (my  lord)  if  Ttilly's,  or  your  own. 
All  that  we  feel  of  it  begins  and  ends 
In  the  small  circle  of  our  foes  or  friends; 
To  all  beside  as  much  an  empty  shade 
A  Eugene  living,  as  a  Ciesar  dead ; 
Alike  or  when,  or  where,  they  shone,  or  shine, 
Or  on  the  Eubicon,  or  on  the  Rhine. 
A  wit 's  a  feather,  and  a  chief  a  rod; 
An  honest  man  's  the  noblest  work  of  God. 
Fame  but  from  death  a  villain's  name  can  save, 
As  justice  tears  his  body  from  the  grave ; 
When  what  to  oblivion  better  were  resign'd, 
Is  hung  on  high,  to  poison  half  mankind. 
All  fame  is  foreign,  but  of  true  desert ; 
Plays  round  the  head,  but  comes  not  to  the  heart : 
One  self-approving  hour  whole  years  outweighs 
Of  stupid  starers,  and  of  loud  huzzas ; 
And  more  true  joy  Marcellus  exiled  feels, 
Than  Caesar  with  a  senate  at  his  heels. 

We  conclude  our  extracts  with  a  fragment  from  Eloisa  to 
Abelard. 

See  in  her  cell  sad  Eloisa  spread, 
Propp'd  on  some  tomb,  a  neighbor  of  the  dead. 
In  each  low  wind  methinks  a  spirit  calls, 
And  more  than  echoes  talk  along  the  walls. 
Here,  as  I  watch'd  the  dying  lamps  around, 
From  yonder  shrine  I  heard  a  hollow  sound. 
"  Come,  sister,  come  !  ( it  said,  or  seem'd  to  say) 
Thy  place  is  here,  sad  sister,  come  away ; 
Once  like  thyself,  I  trembled,  wept,  and  pray'd, 
Love's  victim  then,  though  now  a  sainted  maid : 
But  all  is  calm  in  this  eternal  sleep; 
Here  Grief  forgets  to  groan,  and  Love  to  weep, 
E'en  superstition  loses  every  fear: 
For  God,  not  man,  absolves  our  frailties  here." 

I  come,  I  come !  prepare  your  roseate  bowers, 
Celestial  palms,  and  ever-blooming  flowers. 
Thither,  where  sinners  may  have  rest,  I  go, 
Where  flames  refined  in  breasts  seraphic  glow : 


POPE.  409 

Thou,  Abelard !   the  last  sad  office  pay, 
And  smooth  my  passage  to  the  realms  of  day: 
See  my  lips  tremble,  and  my  eyeballs  roll, 
Suck  my  last  breath,  and  catch  my  flying  soul ! 
Ah  no— in  sacred  vestments  may'st  thou  stand, 
The  hallow'd  taper  trembling  in  thy  hand, 
Present  the  cross  before  my  lifted  eye, 
Teach  me  at  once,  and  learn  of  me,  to  die. 
Ah  then,  thy  once-loved  Eloi'sa  see ! 
It  will  be  then  no  crime  to  gaze  on  me. 
See  from  my  cheek  the  transient  roses  fly ! 
See  the  last  sparkle  languish  in  my  eye! 
Till  every  motion,  pulse,  and  breath  be  o'er ; 
And  even  my  Abelard  be  loved  110  more. 
O  Death  all-eloquent!  you  only  prove 
What  dust  we  dote  on,  when  'tis  man  we  love. 

Then,  too,  when  fate  shall  thy  fair  frame  destroy, 
(That  cause  of  all  my  guilt,  and  all  my  joy) 
In  trance  ecstatic  may  thy  pangs  be  drown'd, 
Bright  clouds  descend,  and  angels  watch  thee  round, 
From  opening  skies  may  streaming  glories  shine, 
And  saints  embrace  thee  with  a  love  like  mine. 

May  one  kind  grave  unite  each  hapless  name, 
And  graft  my  love  immortal  on  thy  fame! 
Then,  ages  hence,  when  all  my  woes  are  o'er, 
When  this  rebellious  heart  shall  beat  no  more ; 
If  ever  chance  two  wandering  lovers  brings 
To  Paradet's  white  walls  and  silver  springs, 
O'er  the  pale  marble  shall  they  join  their  heads; 
And  drink  the  falling  tears  each  other  sheds; 
Then  sadly  say,  with  mutual  pity  moved, 
"  Oh  may  we  never  love  as  these  have  loved ! " 
From  the  full  choir  when  loud  hosannahs  rise, 
And  swell  the  pomp  of  dreadful  sacrifice, 
Amid  that  scene  if  some  relenting  eye 
Glance  on  the  stone  where  our  cold  relics  lie, 
Devotion's  self  sha,ll  steal  a  thought  from  heaven, 
One  human  tear  shall  drop,  and  be  forgiven. 
And  sure  if  fate  some  future  bard  shall  join 
In  sad  similitude  of  griefs  to  mine, 
Condemn'd  whole  years  in  absence  to  deplore, 
And  image  charms  he  must  behold  no  more; 
Such  if  there  be,  who  loves  so  long,  so  well ; 
Let  him  our  sad,  our  tender  story  tell ; 
The  well-sung  woes  will  soothe  my  pensive  ghost; 
He  best  can  paint  them  who  shall  feel  them  most. 
35 


410  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

11  Pope  was  a  man  of  exquisite  faculties,  and  of  the  most  refined 
taste;  and  as  he  chose  verse  (the  most  obvious  distinction  of 
poetry)  as  the  vehicle  to  express  his  ideas,  he  has  generally  passed 
for  a  poet,  and  a  good  one.  If,  indeed,  by  a  great  poet,  we  mean 
one  who  gives  the  utmost  grandeur  to  our  conceptions  of  nature, 
or  the  utmost  force  to  the  passions  of  the  heart,  Pope  was  not  in 
this  sense  a  great  poet;  for  the  bent,  the  characteristic  power  of 
his  mind,  lay  the  clean  contrary  way;  namely,  in  representing 
things  as  they  appear  to  the  indifferent  observer,  stripped  of  preju- 
dice and  passion,  as  in  his  Critical  Essays;  or  in  representing  them 
in  the  most  contemptible  and  insignificant  point  of  view,  as  in  his 
Satires  ;  or  in  clothing  the  little  with  mock  dignity,  as  in  his  poems 
of  Fancy ;  or  in  adorning  the  trivial  incidents  and  familiar  rela- 
tions of  life  with  the  utmost  elegance  of  expression,  and  all  the 
flattering  illusions  of  friendship  or  self-love,  as  in  his  Epistles. 

"  Pope  was  not  then  distinguished  as  a  poet  of  lofty  enthusiasm, 
of  strong  imagination,  with  a  passionate  sense  of  the  beauties  of 
nature,  or  a  deep  insight  into  the  workings  of  the  heart ;  but  he 
was  a  wit  and  a  critic,  a  man  of  sense,  of  observation,  and  the 
world,  with  a  keen  relish  for  the  elegances  of  art,  or  of  nature 
when  embellished  by  art,  a  quick  tact  for  propriety  of  thought  and 
manners  as  established  by  the  forms  and  customs  of  society,  refined 
sympathy  with  the  sentiments  and  habitudes  of  human  life,  as  he 
felt  them  within  the  little  circle  of  his  family  and  friends.  He  was, 
in  a  word,  the  poet,  not  of  nature,  but  of  art. 

"Yet  within  this  retired  and  narrow  circle  how  much,  and  that 
how  exquisite,  was  contained !  What  discrimination,  what  wit, 
what  delicacy,  what  fancy,  what  lurking  spleen,  what  elegance  of 
thought,  what  pampered  refinement  of  sentiment!  It  is  like  look- 
ing at  the  world  through  a  microscope,  where  everything  assumes 
a  new  character  and  a  new  consequence,  where  things  are  seen  in 
their  minutest  circumstances  and  slightest  shades  of  difference, 
where  the  little  becomes  gigantic,  the  deformed  beautiful,  and  the 
beautiful  deformed.  The  wrong  end  of  the  magnifier  is,  to  be  sure, 
held  to  everything,  but  still  the  exhibition  is  highly  curious,  and 
we  know  not  whether  to  be  most  pleased  or  surprised."* 

*  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets,  by  William  Hazlitt. 


TOBIAS    SMOLLETT. 


TOBIAS  SMOLLETT  "was  born  in  1721,  in  the  old  house  of 
Dalquhurn,  in  the  valley  of  Leven  (Scotland),  in  perhaps  the 
most  beautiful  district  in  Britain."  *  A  pretty  fair  classical  edu- 
cation having  been  given  him  at  Dunbarton  and  at  Glasgow, 
Smollett  was  then  apprenticed  to  one  Gordon,  an  eminent  sur- 
geon. "  During  his  apprenticeship,  his  conduct  indicated  that 
love  of  frolic,  practical  jest,  and  playful  mischief,  of  which  his 
works  show  many  proofs,  and  the  young  novelist  gave  also  sev- 
eral proofs  of  his  talents  and  propensity  to  satire."  * 

At  nineteen,  Smollett  went  to  London  with  only  the  Regicide, 
a  tragedy,  in  his  pocket.  This  he  failed  of  bringing  upon  the 
stage  at  that  time,  and  the  disappointment  that  ensued  drove 
him  as  a  surgeon's  mate  on  board  a  ship  of  the  line,  in  the  expe- 
dition to  Carthagena,  in  1741.  "  The  term  of  our  author's  ser- 
vice in  the  navy  was  chiefly  remarkable  from  his  having  acquired, 
in  /that  brief  space,  such  intimate  knowledge  of  our  nautical 
world  as  enabled  him  to  describe  sailors  with  such  truth  and 
spirit  of  delineation  that,  from  that  time,  whoever  has  under- 
taken the  same  task  has  seemed  to  copy  more  from  Smollett  than 
from  nature."  * 

Smollett  returned  to  London  in  1746,  and  made  an  unsuccess- 
ful attempt  to  establish  himself  there  as  a  physician.  Thereupon 
he  had  recourse  to  his  pen  as  a  means  of  support,  and  brought 
forth  in  1746  Advice^  and  the  next  year  Reproof,  both  poetical 
satires  of  indifferent  merit.  It  was  not  until  1748  that  Smol- 
lett, discarding  both  physic  and  poetry,  and  embracing  fiction, 
achieved  his  first,  and  also  a  permanent  success,  in  the  produc- 
tion of  The  Adventures  of  Rodei^iclc  Random,.  "  This  may  be 
considered  as  an  imitation  of  Le  Sage,  as  the  hero  flits  through 
almost  every  scene  of  public  and  private  life,  recording,  as  he 

*  A  Memoir  of  Smollett,  by  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

411 


412  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

paints  his  own  adventures,  the  manners  of  the  times,  with  all 
their  various  shades  and  diversities  of  coloring,  but  forming  no 
connected  plot  or  story,  the  several  parts  of  which  hold  connec- 
tion with,  or  bear  proportion  to,  each  other."  * 

In  1750,  Smollett  went  to  Paris,  and  while  there  (in  1751) 
gave  to  the  public  his  second  novel,  Peregrine  Pickle.  "  This 
work  is  more  finished,  more  sedulously  labored  into  excellence, 
exhibits  scenes  of  more  accumulated  interest,  and  presents  a 
richer  variety  of  character  and  adventure  than  Roderick  Ran- 
dom; but  yet  there  is  an  ease  and  simplicity  in  the  first  novel 
which  is  not  quite  attained  in  the  second,  where  the  author  has 
substituted  splendor  of  coloring  for  simplicity  of  outline."* 

"In  the  year  1753,  Smollett  published  TJie  Adventures  of  Ferdi- 
nand Count  Fathom,  one  of  those  works  which  seem  to  have  been 
written  for  the  purpose  of  showing  how  far  humor  and  genius  can 
go  in  painting  a  complete  picture  of  human  depravity.  Condemn- 
ing, however,  the  scope  and  tendency  of  the  work,  it  is  impossible 
to  deny  our  applause  to  the  wonderful  knowledge  of  life  and  man- 
ners which  is  evinced  in  the  tale  of  Count  Fathom,  as  much  as  in 
any  of  Smollett's  works."* 

Passing  by  with  a  mere  mention  his  version  of  "  Don  Quixole," 
his  editing  of  the  "Critical  Review" — during  which  employment 
the  asperity  of  his  strictures  on  one  occasion  subjected  him  to  fine 
and  imprisonment. — his  compilation  of  A  Compendium  of  Authentic 
and  Entertaining  Voyages,  etc.,  and  his  comedy  of  The  Reprisals,  we 
come,  in  1758,  to  his  Complete  History  of  England,  deduced  from  the. 
Descent  of  Julius  Csesar  to  the  Treaty  of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  in  1748.  "  It 
is  said  that  this  voluminous  work,  containing  the  history  of  thir- 
teen centuries,  and  written  with  uncommon  spirit  and  correctness 
of  language,  was  composed  and  finished  for  the  press  within  four- 
teen months,  one  of  the  greatest  exertions  of  facility  of  composition 
which  was  ever  recorded  in  the  history  of  literature.  Within  a 
space  so  brief  it  could  not  be  expected  that  new  facts  should  be 
produced;  and  all  the  novelty  which  Smollett's  history  could  pre- 
sent must  needs  consist  in  the  mode  of  stating  facts,  or  in  the 
reflections  deduced  from  them."* 

Next  followed,  in  the  interval  between  1760  and  1763,  The  Adven- 
tures of  Sir  Launcelot  Greaves — an  imitation  to  some  extent  of  "  Don 
Quixote,"  some  additional  historical  and  political  writing,  some 
translating,  and  some  compiling.  Grief  at  the  loss  of  an  only 

*  A  Memoir  of  Smollett,  by  Sir  Walter  Scott. 


SMOLLETT.  413 


daughter,  and  ill  health,  induced  Smollett  to  spend  the  next  three 
years  in  France  and  in  Italy.  Travels  through  France  and  Italy  was 
(in  1766)  the  result  of  this  tour.  "  Smollett's  Travels  are  distin- 
guished by  acuteness  and  shrewdness  of  expression,— by  strong 
sense  and  pointed  humor  ;  but  -the  melancholy  state  of  the  author's 
mind  induced  him  to  view  all  the  ordinary  objects  from  which 
travelers  receive  pleasure  with  cynical  contempt."* 

Smollett's  health  now  became  too  precarious  to  admit  of  much 
literary  activity,  and  the  only  production  assigned  to  the  years 
1766-69  is  The  Adventures  of  an  Atom — a  political  satire.  Shortly 
after  the  publication  of  the  latter,  our  author  sought  to  mitigate 
his  intense  physical  sufferings  by  a  residence  on  the  shores  of 
the  Mediterranean,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Leghorn.  Here  he 
expended  the  last  and  rarest  energies  of  his  life  in  the  production 
of  The  Expedition  of  Humphrey  Clinker,  the  work  appearing  only  a 
few  months  before  its  author's  demise.  This  last  event  occurred 
on  the  21st  of  October,  1771. 

The  following  extract  is  from  Humphrey  Clinker : 

TO  SIB  WATKIN  PHILLIPS,  BART.,  AT  OXON. 

DEAR  PHILLIPS. — When  I  wrote  to  you  by  last  post,  I  did  not  imagine 
I  should  be  tempted  to  trouble  you  again  so  soon ;  but  I  now  sit  down  with 
a  heart  so  full,  that  it  cannot  contain  itself;  though  I  am  under  such  agita- 
tion of  spirits,  that  you  are  to  expect  neither  method  nor  connection  in  this 
address.  We  have*  been  this  day  within  a  hair's-breadth  of  losing  honest 
Matthew  Bramble,  in  consequence  of  a  cursed  accident,  which  1  will 
endeavor  to  explain. 

In  crossing  the  country  to  get  into  the  post-road,  it  was  necessary  to  ford 
a  river,  and  we  that  were  a-horseback  passed  without  any  danger  or  diffi- 
culty ;  but  a  great  quantity  of  rain  having  fallen  last  night  and  this  morn- 
ing, there  was  such  an  accumulation  of  water,  that  a  mill-head  gave  way, 
just  as  the  coach  was  passing  under  it,  and  the  flood  rushed  down  with 
such  impetuosity  as  first  floated,  and  then  fairly  overturned  the  carriage  in 
the  middle  of  the  stream.  Lismahago  and  I,  and  the  two  servants,  alighting 
instantaneously,  ran  into  the  river  to  give  all  the  assistance  in  our  power. 
Our  aunt,  Mrs.  Tabitha,  who  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  uppermost,  wras 
already  halfway  out  of  the  coach  window,  when  her  lover  approaching,  dis- 
engaged her  entirely  ;  but,  whether  his  foot  slipped,  or  the  burden  was  too 
great,  they  fell  over  head  and  ears  in  each  other's  arms.  He  endeavored 
more  than  once  to  get  up,  and  even  to  disentangle  himself  from  her 
embrace,  but  she  hung  about  his  neck  like  a  millstone  (no  bad  emblem  of 
matrimony) ;  and  if  my  man  had  not  proved  a  staunch  auxiliary,  those  two 
lovers  would  in  all  probability  have  gone  hand  in  hand  to* the  shades 
below.  For  my  part,  I  was  too  much  engaged  to  take  any  cognizance  of 
their  distress.  I  snatched  out  my  sister  by  the  hair  of  the  head,  and 
dragging  her  to  the  bank,  recollected  that  my  uncle  had  not  yet  appeared. 

Rushing  again  into  the  stream,   I  met  Clinker  hauling  ashore  Mrs. 

*  A  Memoir  qf  Smottctl,\)y  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
35* 


414  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Jenkins,  who  looked  like  a  mermaid  with  her  hair  disheveled  about  her 
ears;  but  when  1  asked  if  his  master  was  safe,  he  forthwith  shook  her 
from  him,  and  she  must  have  gone  to  pot,  if  a  miller  had  not  seasonably 
come  to  her  relief.  As  for  Humphrey,  he  flew  like  lightning  to  the  coach, 
that  was  by  this  time  filled  with  water,  and,  diving  into  it,  brought  up  the 
poor  squire,  to  all  appearance  deprived  of  life.  The  faithful  Clinker,  tak- 
ing him  up  in  his  arms,  as  if  he  had  been  an  infant  of  six  months,  carried 
him  ashore,  howling  most  piteously  all  the  way,  and  I  followed  him  in  a 
transport  of  grief  and  consternation.  When  he  was  laid  upon  the  grass, 
and  turned  from  side  to  side,  a  great  quantity  of  water  ran  out  at  his 
mouth,  then  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  fetched  a  deep  sigh.  Clinker,  per- 
ceiving these  signs  of  life,  immediately  tied  up  his  arm  with  a  garter,  and, 
pulling  out  a  horse-fleam,  let  him  blood  in  the  farrier  style.  At  flrst  a  few 
drops  only  issued  from  the  orifice ;  but  the  arm  being-  chafed,  in  a  little 
time  the  blood  began  to  flow  in  a  continued  stream ;  and  he  uttered  some 
incoherent  words,  which  were  the  most  welcome  sounds  that  ever  saluted 
my  ear. 

There  was  a  country  inn  hard  by,  the  landlord  of  which  had  by  this 
time  come  with  his  people  to  give  their  assistance.  Thither  my 'uncle 
being  carried,  was  undressed,  and  put  to  bed  wrapped  in  warm  blankets ; 
but  having  been  moved  too  soon,  he  fainted  away,  and  once  more  lay  with- 
out sense  or  motion,  notwithstanding  all  the  efforts  of  Clinker  and  the 
landlord,  who  bathed  his  temples  with  Hungary-water,  and  held  a  smell- 
ing-bottle to  his  nose.  As  I  had  heard  of  the  efficacy  of  salt  in  such  cases, 
I  ordered  all  that  was  in  the  house  to  be  laid  under  his  head  and  body ; 
and  whether  this  application  had  the  desired  effect,  or  Nature  of  herself 
prevailed,  he,  in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  began  to  breathe  regularly, 
and  soon  retrieved  his  recollection,  to  the  unspeakable  joy  of  all  the 
by-standers.  As  for  Clinker,  his  brain  seemed  to  be  affected.  He  laughed 
and  wept,  and  danced  about  in  such  a  distracted  manner,  that  the  landlord 
very  judiciously  conveyed  him  out  of  the  room. 

My  uncle,  seeing  me  dripping  wet,  comprehended  the  whole  of  what  had 
happened,  and  asked  if  all  the  company  was  safe.  Being  answered  in  the 
affirmative,  he  insisted  upon  my  putting  on  dry  clothes :  and  having  swal- 
lowed a  little  warm  wine,  desired  he  might  be  left  to  his  repose.  Before  I 
went  to  shift  myself,  1  inquired  about  the  rest  of  the  family.  I  found  Mrs. 
Tabitha  still  delirious  from  her  fright,  discharging  very  copiously  the  water 
she  had  swallowed.  She  was  supported  by  the  captain,  distilling  drops 
from  his  uncurled  periwig,  so  lank  and  so  dank,  that  he  looked  like  father 
Thame  without  his  seges,  embracing  Isis  while  she  cascaded  in  his  urn. 
Mrs.  Jenkins  was  present  also,  in  a  loose  bed-gown,  without  either  cap  or 
handkerchief;  but  she  seemed  to  be  as  little  compos  mentis  as  her  mistress, 
and  acted  so  many  cross  purposes  in  the  course  of  her  attendance,  that, 
between  the  two  Lismahago  had  occasion  for  all  his  philosophy. 

As  for  Liddy,  I  thought  the  poor  girl  would  have  actually  lost  her  senses. 
The  good  woman  of  the  house  had  shifted  her  linen,  and  put  her  into  bed ; 
but  she  was  seized  with  the  idea  that  her  uncle  had  perished,  and,  in  this 
persuasion,  made  a  dismal  outcry  ;  nor  did  she  pay  the  least  regard  to  what 
1  said,  when  I  solemnly  assured  her  he  was  safe.  Mr.  Bramble  hearing  the 
noise,  and  being  informed  of  her  apprehension,  desired  she  might  be  brought 
into  his  chamber ;  and  she  no  sooner  received  this  intimation,  than  she  ran 
thither  half  naked,  with  the  wildest  expression  of  eagerness  in  her  counte- 
nance. 


SMOLLETT.  415 

Seeing  the  squire  sitting  up  in  the  bed,  she  sprung  forwards,  and  throw- 
ing her  arms  about  his  neck,  exclaimed,  in  a  most  pathetic  tone, — "  Are 
you — are  you  indeed,  my  uncle  ! — My  dear  uncle  !  —My  best  friend  !— My 
father ! — Are  you  really  living  ?  or  is  it  an  illusion  of  my  poor  brain  ?  " 
Honest  Matthew  was  so  much  affected,  that  he  could  not  help  shedding 
tears,  while  he  kissed  her  forehead,  saying, — "  My  dear  Liddy,  I  hope  I 
shall  live  long  enough  to  show  how  sensible  I  am  of  your  affection.  But 
your  spirits  are  fluttered,  child — you  want  rest— go  to  bed  and  compose 
yourself."  "  Well,  I  will,"  she  replied ;  "  but  still  methinks  this  cannot  be 
real.  The  coach  was  full  of  water -my  uncle  was  under  us.  Gracious 
God !  you  was  under  water — how  did  you  get  out  ?  Tell  me  that ;  or  I 
shall  think  this  is  all  a  deception."  "  In  what  manner  I  was  brought  out, 
1  know  as  little  as  you  do,  my  dear,"  said  the  squire :  "  and  truly  that  is  a 
circumstance  of  which  I  want  to  be  informed."  I  would  have  given  him  a 
detail  of  the  whole  adventure,  but  he  would  not  hear  me  until  I  should 
change  my  clothes ;  so  that  I  had  only  time  to  tell  him  that  he  owed  his 
life  to  the  courage  and  fidelity  of  Clinker ;  and  having  given  him  this  hint, 
I  conducted  my  blister  to  her  own  chamber. 

This  accident  happened  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  in  little 
more  than  half  an  hour  the  hurricane  was  all  over ;  but  as  the  carriage  was 
found  to  be  so  much  damaged  that  it  could  not  proceed  without  consider- 
able repairs,  a  blacksmith  and  wheelwright  were  immediately  sent  for  to 
the  next  market-town,  and  wre  congratulated  ourselves  upon  being  housed 
at  an  inn,  which,  though  remote  from  the  post-road,  afforded  exceeding 
good  lodging. 

The  women  being  pretty  well  composed,  and  the  men  all  afoot,  my  uncle 
sent  for  his  servant,  and,  in  the  presence  of  Lismahago  and  rne,  accosted 
him  in  these  words :  "  So,  Clinker,  I  find  you  are  resolved  I  shan't  die  by 
water.  As  you  have  fished  me  up  from  the  bottom  at  your  own  risk,  you 
are  atfleast  entitled  to  all  the  money  that  was  in  my  pocket,  and  there  it 
is."  So  saying,  he  presented  him  with  a  purse  containing  thirty  guineas, 
and  a  ring  nearly  of  the  same  value.  "God  forbid,"  cried  Clinker,  "your 
honor  shall  excuse  me.  I  am  a  poor  fellow ;  but  I  have  a  heart.  Oh,  if 
your  honor  did  but  know  how  I  rejoiced  to  see— blessed  be  His  holy  name, 
that  made  me  the  humble  instrument — but  as  for  the  lucre  of  gain,  1  re- 
nounce it.  I  have  done  no  more  than  my  duty ;  no  more  than  I  would 
have  done  for  the  most  worthless  of  my  fellow-creatures ;  no  more  than  I 
would  have  done  for  Captain  Lismahago,  or  Archy  M' Alpine,  or  any  sinner 
upon  earth ;  but,  for  your  worship,  I  would  go  through  fire  as  well  as 
water." 

"  I  do  believe  it,  Humphrey,"  said  the  squire ;  "  but  as  you  think  it  was 
your  duty  to  save  my  life  at  hazard  of  your  own,  I  think  it  mine  to  express 
the  sense  I  have  of  your  extraordinary  fidelity  and  attachment — I  insist 
upon  your  receiving  this  small  token  of  my  gratitude ;  but  don't  imagine 
that  1  look  upon  this  as  an  adequate  recompense  for  the  service  you  have 
done  me.  I  have  determined  to  settle  thirty  pounds  a  year  upon  you  for 
life ;  and  I  desire  these  gentlemen  to  bear  witness  to  this  my  intention,  of 
which  I  have  a  memorandum  in  my  pocket-book."  "  Lord  make  me  thank- 
ful for  all  these  mercies ! "  cried  Clinker,  sobbing ;  "  I  have  been  a  poor 
bankrupt  from  the  beginning.  Your  honor's  goodness  found  me,  when  I 
was— naked— when  I  was— sick  and  forlorn — I  understand  your  honor's 
looks — I  would  not  give  offence. — but  my  heart  is  very  full — and  if  your 
worship  won't  give  me  leave  to  speak — I  must  vent  it  in 'prayer  to  Heaven 
for  my  beneiactor." 


416  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


When  he  quitted  the  room,  Lismahago  said  he  should  have  a  much 
better  opinion  of  his  honesty  if  he  did  not  whine  and  cant  so  abominably ; 
but  that  he  had  always  observed  those  weeping  and  praying  fellows  were 
hypocrites  at  bottom.  Mr.  Bramble  made  no  reply  to  this  sarcastic  remark, 
proceeding  from  the  lieutenant's  resentment  of  Clinker's  having,  in  pure 
simplicity  of  heart,  ranked  him  with  M' Alpine  and  the  sinners  of  the 
earth.  The  landlord  being  called  to  receive  some  orders  about  the  beds, 
told  the  squire  that  his  house  was  very  much  at  his  service,  but  he  was  sure 
he  should  not  have  the  honor  to  lodge  him  and  his  company.  He  gave  him 
to  understand  that  his  master,  who  lived  hard  by,  would  not  suffer  us  to  be 
at  a  public  house  when  there  was  an  accommodation  for  us  at  his  own ; 
and  that,  if  he  had  not  dined  abroad  in  the  neighborhood,  he  would  have 
undoubtedly  come  to  offer  his  services  at  our  first  arrival.  He  then  launched 
out  in  praise  of  that  gentleman,  whom  he  had  served  as  butler,  representing 
him  as  a  perfect  miracle  of  goodness  and  generosity.  He  said  he  was  a 
person  of  great  learning,  and  allowed  to  be  the  best  farmer  in  the  country 
— that  he  had  a  lady  who  was  as  much  beloved  as  himself,  and  an  only  son, 
a  very  hopeful  young  gentleman,  just  recovered  from  a  dangerous  fever, 
which  had  like  to  have  proved  fatal  to  the  whole  family ;  for,  if  the  son 
had  died,  he  was  sure  the  parents  would  not  have  survived  their  loss. 

He  had  not  yet  finished  the  encomium  of  Mr.  Dennison  when  this  gen- 
tleman arrived  in  a  post-chaise,  and  his  appearance  seemed  to  justify  all 
that  had  been  said  in  his  favor.  He  is  pretty  well  advanced  in  years,  but 
hale,  robust,  and  florid,  with  an  ingenuous  countenance,  expressive  of  good 
sense  and  humanity.  Having  condoled  with  us  on  the  accident  which  had 
happened,  he  said  he  was  come  to  conduct  us  to  his  habitation,  where  we 
should  be  less  incommoded  than  at  such  a  paltry  inn,  and  expressed  his 
hope  that  the  ladies  would  not  be  the  worse  for  going  thither  in  his  car- 
riage, as  the  distance  was  not  above  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  My  uncle  having 
made  a  proper  return  to  this  courteous  exhibition,  eyed  him  attentively, 
and  then  asked  if  he  had  not  been  at  Oxford,  a  commoner  of  Queen's  col- 
lege; when  Mr.  Dennison  answered,—"  Yes,"  with  some  marks  of  surprise. 
"Look  at  me,  then,"  said  our  squire,  "and  let  us  see  if  you  can  recollect 
the  features  of  an  old  friend,  whom  you  have  not  seen  these  forty  years." 
The  gentleman,  taking  him  by  the  hand,  and  gazing  at  him  earnestly, — 
"  I  protest,"  cried  he,  "  I  do  think  I  recall  the  idea  of  Matthew  Lloyd  of 
Glamorganshire,  who  was  student  of  Jesus."  "  Well  remembered,  my  dear 
friend  Charles  Dennison,"  exclaimed  my  uncle,  pressing  him  to  his  breast, 
"  i  am  that  very  identical  Matthew  Llojd  of  Glamorgan." 

Clinker,  who  had  just  entered  the  room  with  some  coals  for  the  fire,  no 
sooner  heard  these  words  than,  throwing  down  the  scuttle  on  the  toes  of 
Lismahago,  he  began  to  caper  as  if  he  was  mad,  crying — "  Matthew  Lloyd 
of  Glamorgan  !  O  Providence  !  Matthew  Lloyd  of  Glamorgan ! "  Then, 
clasping  my  uncle's  knees,  he  went  on  in  this  manner — "  Your  worship 
must  forgive  me — Matthew  Lloyd  of  Glamorgan! — O  Lord,  sir! — I  can't 
contain  myself! — I  shall  lose  my  senses — "  "Nay,  thou  hast  lost  them  al- 
ready, I  believe,"  said  the  squire  peevishly ;  "  pr'ythee,  Clinker,  be  quiet 
— what  is  the  matter?"  .  Humphrey,  fumbling  in  his  bosom*,  pulled  out  an 
old  wooden  snuff-box,  which  he  presented  in  great  trepidation  to  his  master, 
who,  opening  it  immediately,  perceived  a  small  cornelian  seal,  and  two 
scraps  of  paper. 

At  sight  of  these  articles  the  squire  started  and  changed  color,  and  cast- 
ing his  eye  upon  the  inscriptions — "  Ha ! — how  ! — what ! — where,"  cried  he, 


SMOLLETT.  417 


"  is  the  person  here  named  ?  "  Clinker,  knocking  his  own  breast,  could 
hardly  pronounce  these  words — "Here— here — here  is  Matthew  Lloyd,  as 
the  certificate  showeth.  Humphrey  Clinker  was  the  name  of  the  farrier  that 
took  me 'prentice."  "And  who  gave  you  these  tokens?"  said  my  uncle 
hastily.  "  My  poor  mother  on  her  death-bed,"  replied  the  other.  "  And 
who  was  your  mother  ?  "  "  Dorothy  Twyford,  an'  please  your  honor,  here- 
tofore barkeeper  at  the  Angel  at  Chippenham."  "  And  why  were  not  these 
tokens  produced  before  ?  "  "  My  mother  told  me  she  had  wrote  to  Glamor- 
ganshire at  the  time  of  my  birth,  but  had  no  answer ;  and  that  afterwards, 
when  she  made  inquiry,  there  was  no  such  person  in  that  county."  "And 
so-,  in  consequence  of  my  changing  my  name,  and  going  abroad  at  that  very 
time,  thy  poor  mother  and  thou  have  been  left  to  want  and  misery — I  am 
really  shocked  at  the  consequence  of  my  own  folly."  Then,  laying  his 
hand  on  Clinker's  head,  he  added, — "Stand  forth,  Matthew  Lloyd — you 
see,  gentlemen,  how  the  sins  of  my  youth  rise  up  in  judgment  against  me 
— here  is  my  direction,  written  with  my  own  hand,  and  a  seal  which  I  left 
at  the  woman's  request,  and  this  is  a  certificate  of  the  child's  baptism, 
signed  by  the  curate  of  the  parish." 

The  company  were  not  a  little  surprised  at  this  discovery ;  upon  which 
Mr.  Dennison  facetiously  congratulated  both  the  father  and  the  son :  for 
my  part,  I  shook  my  new-found  cousin  heartily  by  the  hand ;  and  Lisma- 
hago  complimented  him  with  the  tears  in  his  eyes ;  for  he  had  been  hop- 
ping about  the  room,  swearing  in  broad  Scotch,  and  bellowing  with  the 
pain  occasioned  by  the  fall  of  the  coal-scuttle  upon  his  foot.  He  had  even 
vowed  to  drive  the  saul  out  of  the  body  of  that  mad  rascal :  but,  perceiving 
the  unexpected  turn  which  things  had  taken,  he  wished  him  joy  of  his 
good  fortune,  observing,  that  it  went  very  near  his  heart,  as  he  was  like  to 
be  a  great  toe  out  of  pocket  by  the  discovery.  Mr.  Dennison  now  desired 
to  know  for  what  reason  my  uncle  had  changed  the  name  by  which  he  knew 
him  at /Oxford ;  and  our  squire  satisfied  him,  by  answering  to  this  effect : 
"  I  took  my  mother's  name,  which  was  Lloyd,  as  heir  to  her  lands  in  Gla- 
morganshire ;  but,  when  I  came  of  age,  I  sold  that  property,  in  order  to 
clear  my  paternal  estate,  and  resumed  my  real  name ;  so  that  I  am  now 
Matthew  Bramble  of  Brambleton-hall,  in  Monmouthshire,  at  your  service ; 
and  this  is  my  nephew  Jeremy  Melford  of  Belfield,  in  the  county  of  Gla- 
morgan." 

At  that  instant  the  ladies  entering  the  room,  the  squire  presented  Mrs. 
Tabitha  as  his  sister,  and  Liddy  as  his  niece.  "  Sister,"  said  my  uncle, 
"  there  is  a  poor  relation  that  recommends  himself  to  your  good  graces. 
The  quondam  Humphrey  Clinker  is  metamorphosed  into  Matthew  Lloyd, 
and  claims  the  honor  of  being  your  carnal  kinsman.  In  short,  the  rogue 
proves  to  be  a  crab  of  my  own  planting,  in  the  days  of  hot  blood  and  unre- 
strained libertinism."  Clinker,  had  by  this  time  dropped  upon  one  knee, 
by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Tabitha,  who,  eyeing  him  askance,  and  flirting  her  fan 
with  marks  of  agitation,  thought  proper,  after  some  conflict,  to  hold  out  her 
hand  for  him  to  kiss,  saying  with  a  demure  aspect, — "  Brother,  you  have 
been  very  wicked ;  but  I  hope  you  '11  live  to  see  the  folly  of  your  ways — 
1  am  very  sorry  to  say,  the  young  man,  whom  you  have  this  day  acknowl- 
edged, has  more  grace  and  religion,  by  the  gift  of  God,  than  you  with  all 
your  profane  learning,  and  repeated  opportunity.  I  do  think  he  has  got 
the  trick  of  the  eye,  and  the  tip  of  the  nose  of  my  uncle  Lloyd  of  Flluyd- 
wellin ;  and,  as  for  the  long  chin,  it  is  the  very  moral  of  the  governor's. 
Brother,  as  you  have  changed  his  name,  pray  change  his  dress  also ;  that 
livery  doth  not  become  any  person  that  hath  got  our  blood  in  his  veins." 

2B 


418  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Liddy  seemed  much  pleased  with  this  acquisition  to  the  family  —  she  took 
him  by  the  hand,  c1  tearing  she  should  always  be  proud  to  own  her  connec- 
tion with  a  virtuous  young  man,  who  had  given  so  many  proofs  of  his  grat- 
itude and  affection  to  her  uncle.  Mrs.  Winifred  J  enkins,  extremely  fluttered 


your  poor  fellow-servants,  oh,  oh  !  "  Honest  Clinker  owned  he  was  over- 
joyed at  his  good  fortune,  which  was  greater  than  he  deserved  —  "  But 
wherefore  should  I  be  proud  ?  "  said  he  ;  "  a  poor  object,  conceived  in  sin, 
and  brought  forth  in  iniquity,  nursed  in  a  parish  wrorkhouse,  and  bred  in 
a  smithy  —  whenever  I  seem  proud,  Mrs.  Jenkins,  I  beg  of  you  to  put  me  in 
mind  of  the  condition  1  was  in  when  I  first  saw  you  between  Chippenham 
and  Marlborough." 

When  this  momentous  affair  was  discussed  to  the  satisfaction  of  all  par- 
ties concerned,  the  weather  being  dry,  the  ladies  declined  the  carriage  ;  so 
that  we  walked  all  together  to  Mr.  Dennison's  house,  where  we  found  the 
tea  ready  prepared  by  his  lady,  an  amiable  matron,  who  received  us  with 
all  the  benevolence  of  hospitality.  The  house  is  old-fashioned  and  irreg- 
ular, but  lodgeable  and  commodious.  To  the  south  it  has  the  river  in  front, 
at  the  distance  of  a  hundred  paces  ;  and  on  the  north  there  is  a  rising 
ground,  covered  with  an  agreeable  plantation  :  the  greens  and  walks  are 
kept  in  the  nicest  order,  and  all  is  rural  and  romantic.  I  have  not  yet  seen 
the  young  gentleman,  who  is  on  a  visit  to  a  friend  in  the  neighborhood, 
from  whose  house  he  is  not  expected  till  to-morrow. 

In  the  meantime,  as  there  is  a  man  going  to  the  next  market  town  with 
letters  for  the  post,  I  take  this  opportunity  to  send  you  the  history  of  this 
day,  which  has  been  remarkably  full  of  adventures  ;  and  you  will  own  I 
give  you  them  like  a  beefsteak  at  Dolly's,  hot  and  hot,  without  ceremony 
and  parade,  just  as  they  come  from  the  recollection  of  yours, 

J.  MELFORD. 

"  Smollett's  humor  often  arises  from  the  situation  of  the  persons, 
or  the  peculiarity  of  their  external  appearance  ;  as,  from  Roderick 
Random's  carroty  locks,  which  hung  down  over  his  shoulders  like 
a  pound  of  candles,  or  Strap's  ignorance  of  London,  and  the  blun- 
ders that  follow  from  it.  There  is  a  tone  of  vulgarity  about  all  his 
productions.  The  incidents  frequently  resemble  detached  anec- 
dotes taken  from  a  newspaper  or  magazine;  and,  like  those  of 
'Gil  Bias,'  might  happen  to  a  hundred  other  characters.  He 
exhibits  the  ridiculous  accidents  and  reverses  to  which  human  life 
is  liable,  not  '  the  stuff'  of  which  it  is  composed.  He  seldom  probes 
to  the  quick,  or  penetrates  beyond  the  surface  ;  and,  therefore,  he 
leaves  no  stings  in  the  minds  of  his  readers,  and  in  this  respect  is 
far  less  interesting  than  Fielding.  His  novels  always  enliven,  and 
never  tire  us  ;  we  take  them  up  with  pleasure,  and  lay  them  down 
without  any  strong  feeling  of  regret.  We  look  on  and  laugh,  as 
spectators  of  a  highly  amusing  scene,  without  closing  in  with  the 
combatants,  or  being  made  parties  in  the  event."* 

*  Lectures  en  the  English  Comic  Writers  by  William  Hazlitt. 


SAMUEL   RICHARDSON. 


SAMUEL  RICHARDSON  was  born  in  the  year  1689,  in  Derby- 
shire. His  father  intended  him  for  the  church,  a  destination 
in  perfect  accord  with  the  son's  inclination  :  "  but,"  as  the  latter 
informs  us,  "  while  I  was  very  young,  some  heavy  losses  having 
disabled  him  from  supporting  me  as  genteelly  as  he  wished  in 
an  education  proper  for  the  function,  he  left  me  to  choose,  at 
the  age  of  fifteen  or  sixteen,  a  business  ;  having  been  able  to 
give  me  only  common  school  learning."  His  characteristics  as 
an  author  were  early  unfolded ;  for  when  a  mere  boy  he  was 
noted  as  a  relater  and  fabricator  of  tales  for  the  amusement  of 
his  juvenile  associates;  and  as  a  confidante  of  several  young 
women,  indited  model  love-letters  for  them. 

In  1706,  he  was  bound  to  a  printer ;  served  out  faithfully  his 
seven  years  of  indenture  ;  passed  five  or  six  more  as  a  compositor, 
proof-reader,  and  overseer  of  a  printing  office ;  and  finally,  with 
the  means  accruing  from  his  industry,  set  up  for  himself,  first  in 
Fleet-street,  and  subsequently  in  Salisbury-court.  The  skill, 
thrift,  and  application  which  Richardson  brought  to  his  business 
affairs,  rapidly  augmented  their  profitableness,  and  placed  him, 
betimes,  in  not  only  comfortable,  but  even  affluent  circum- 
stances. 

And  yet,  though  Richardson,  the  printer,  was  in  every  regard 
a  pattern  of  a  business  man,  he  still  found  leisure  in  the  midst 
of  his  mechanical  duties  for  carrying  on  an  extensive  correspond- 
ence with  friends,  and  for  indulging — though  not  publicly — • 
literary  fancies.  Otherwise,  it  would  seem  incredible  that  a 
man,  beginning  authorship  at  fifty  years  of  age,  should  have  so 
readily  attained  to  literary  eminence. 

Richardson's  first  work,  History  of  Pamela,  was  published — 
the  first  two  volumes  of  it — in  174U,  at  the  instance  of  two  book- 
sellers, his  particular  friends,  who  desired  him  "to  write  for 

419 


420  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

them  a  little  volume  of  Letters,  in  a  common  style,  on  such  sub- 
jects as  might  be  of  use  to  those  country  readers  who  were 
unable  to  indite  for  themselves."  The  result  of  his  compliance 
was  a  connected  story,  the  object  of  which  is  to  describe  the  de- 
liverance of  virtue,  in  the  person  of  the  poor  but  pure  Pamela, 
from  the  most  insidious  arts  of  vice,  in  the  person  of  a  wealthy 
young  libertine,  her  master.  "  The  novelty  of  the  plan,  the 
strokes  of  nature  and  pathos,  with  which  the  work  abounds,  the 
simplicity  of  the  language,  the  sentiments  of  piety  and  virtue 
that  are  brought  forward,  took  at  once  the  taste  of  the  public. 
Numberless  were  the  compliments  Richardson  received  upon  it, 
as  soon  as  he  was  known  to  be  the  author ;  for  in  the  publication 
he  only  assumed  the  character  of  editor,  and  that  not  by  name."* 
At  the  suggestion  of  Pope  and  Warburton,  Richardson  after- 
wards added  two  volumes  descriptive  of  Pamela's  career  in 
fashionable. society,  but  these  in  plan,  incidents,  style,  and  gen- 
eral interest  proved  far  inferior  to  the  first  two  volumes. 

In  1748  appeared  Ri chardson's  master- work,  Clarissa  Harlowe. 
It  also  portrays,  but  in  a  higher  social  circle  than  his  former 
work,  the  struggle  between  virtue  and  vice,  wherein,  though  at 
first  the  former  is  made  to  suffer  through  violence,  it  is  ulti- 
mately, and  sublimely  triumphant. 

Five  years  later  our  author  gave  to  the  public  his  Sir  Charles 
Grandison.  In  his  former  works  he  had  delineated  the  love- 
linesses of  the  female  character ;  in  this,  he  aimed  to  portray  a 
perfect  man ;  one  in  whom  natural  parts  and  accomplishments, 
station  and  character,  sentiments  and  actions  should  be  conjoined 
in  perfect  harmony.  "  The  conduct  of  this  piece  differs  from 
that  of  Pamela  and  Clarissa  in  this  respect ;  that  it  does  not 
depend  upon  one  great  event,  but  is  intended  to  open  and  dis- 
play this  character  in  a  variety  of  lights.  The  unity  of  the  work, 
therefore,  consists  in  the  reference  which  every  person,  and  every 
incident,  bears  to  him  who  is  the  hero  of  it."  * 

The  foregoing  exhaust  the  number  of  our  author's  important 
works.  They  were  written  at  his  lovely  suburban  retreat  near 
London,  and  read  while  in  progress  of  construction  to  a  circle 
of  refined  and  appreciative — perhaps  too  appreciative — ladies, 

*  Life  of  Mr.  Richardson,  by  Anna  L.  Barbauld. 


RICHARDSON.  421 


whom  he  always  had  about  him,  and  of  whose  criticisms  and 
suggestions  he  freely  availed  himself. 

Richardson  died  of  apoplexy,  July  4,  1761. 

LETTER  3OO. 
Miss  CLARISSA  HARLOWE  TO  HER  MOTHER. 

Saturday,  Aug.  5. 

HONORB^D  MADAM. — No  self-convicted  criminal  ever  approached  her 
angry  and  just  judge  with  greater  awe,  nor  with  a  truer  contrition,  than  I 
do  you  by  these  lines.  Indeed  I  must  say,  that  if  the  matter  of  my  humble 
prayer  had  not  respected  my  future  welfare,  I  had  not  dared  to  take  this 
liberty.  But  my  heart  is  set  upon  it,  as  upon  a  thing  next  to  God 
Almighty's  forgiveness  necessary  for  me. 

Had  my  sister  known  my  distresses,  she  would  not  have  wrung  my  heart, 
as  she  has  done,  by  a  severity  which  I  must  needs  think  unkind  and 
unsisterly. 

But  complaint  of  any  unkindness  from  her  belongs  not  to  me ;  yet,  as  she 
is  pleased  to  write  that  it  must  be  seen  that  my  penitence  is  less  owing  to 
disappointment  than  to  true  conviction,  permit  me,  madam,  to  insist  upon 
it,  that,  if  such  a  plea  can  be  allowed  me,  I  am  actually  entitled  to  the  bless- 
ing I  sue  for,  since  my  humble  prayer  is  founded  upon  a  true  and  unfeigned 
repentance;  and  this  you  will  the  readier  believe,  if  the  creature  who 
never,  to  the  best  of  her  remembrance,  told  her  mamma  a  wilful  falsehood 
may  be  credited,  when  she  declares,  as  she  does,  in  the  most  solemn  man- 
ner, that  she  met  the  seducer  with  a  determination  not  to  go  off  with  him  ; 
that  the  rash  step  was  owing  more  to  compulsion  than  to  infatuation ;  and 
that  her  heart  was  so  little  in  it,  that  she  repented  and  grieved  from  the 
moment  she  found  herself  in  his  power ;  and  for  every  moment  after,  for 
several  weeks  before  she  had  any  cause  from  him  to  apprehend  the  usage 
she  met  with. 

Wherefore,  on  my  knees,  my  ever-honored  mamma,  (for  on  my  knees  I 
write  this  letter,)  I  olo  most  humbly  beg  your  blessing ;  say  but,  in  so  many 
words,  (I  ask  you  not,  madam,  to  call  me  your  daughter,) — Los/,  unhappy 
wretch,  I  forgive  you  !  and  may  God  bless  you  ! — This  is  all !  Let  me,  on  a 
blessed  scrap  of  paper,  but  see  one  sentence  to  this  effect,  under  your  dear 
hand,  that  I  may  hold  it  to  my  heart  in  my  most  trying  struggles,  and  I 
shall  think  it  a  passport  to  Heaven.  And,  if  I  do  not  too  much  presume, 
and  it  were  We  instead  of  I,  and  both  your  honored  names  subjoined  to  it, 
I  should  then  have  nothing  more  to  wish.  Then  would  I  say,  "Great  and 
merciful  God !  thou  seest  here  in  this  paper  thy  poor  unworthy  creature 
absolved  by  her  justly-offended  parents :  Oh  !  join,  for  my  Redeemer's  sake, 
thy  all-gracious  fiat,  and  receive  a  repentant  sinner  to  the  arms  of  thy 
mercy ! " 

I  can  conjure  you,  madam,  by  no  subject  of  motherly  tenderness,  that 
will  not,  in  the  opinion  of  my  severe  censurers,  (before  whom  this  humble 
address  must  appear,)  add  to  my  reproach;  let  me  therefore,  for  God's 
sake,  prevail  upon  you  to  pronounce  me  blest  and  forgiven,  since  you  will 
thereby  sprinkle  comfort  through  the  last  hours  of  your 

CLARISSA  HARLOWE. 
30 


422  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


LETTER  388. 
FROM  MR.  BELFORD  TO  ROBERT  LOVELACE,  CLARISSA'S  SEDUCER. 

Thursday  Night. 

I  may  as  well  try  to  write ;  since,  were  I  to  go  to  bed,  I  shall  not  sleep. 
I  never  had  such  a  weight  of  grief  upon  my  mind  in  my  life,  as  upon  the 
demise  of  this  admirable  woman  (Clarissa), "whose  soul  is  now  rejoicing  in 
the  regions  of  light.  You  may  be  glad  to  know  the  particulars  of  her 
happy  exit.  I  will  try  to  proceed,  for  all  is  hush  and  still ;  the  family 
retired,  but  not  one  of  them,  and  least  of  all  her  poor  cousin  (the  Colonel), 
I  dare  say,  to  rest. 

At  four  o'clock,  as  I  mentioned  in  my  last,  I  was  sent  for  down  ;  and,  as 
thou  usedst  to  like  my  descriptions,  I  will  give  thee  the  woeful  scene  that 
presented  itself  to  me,  as  1  approached  the  bed. 

The  Colonel  was  the  first  that  took  my  attention,  kneeling  on  the  side  of 
the  bed,  the  lady's  right  hand  in  both  of  his,  which  his  face  covered,  bath- 
ing it  with  his  tears ;  although  she  had  been  comforting  him,  as  the  women 
since  told  me,  in  elevated  strains,  but  broken  accents. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  bed  sat  the  good  widow,  her  face  overwhelmed 
with  tears,  leaning  her  head  against  the  bed's  head  in  a  most  disconsolate 
manner ;  and  turning  her  face  to  me,  as  soon  as  she  saw  me,  O,  Mr.  Bel- 
ford,  cried  she,  with  folded  hands — the  dear  lady —  A  heavy  sob  per- 
mitted her  not  to  say  more.  Mrs.  Smith,  with  clasped  fingers  and  uplifted 
eyes,  as  if  imploring  help  from  the  only  Power  which  could  give  it,  was 
kneeling  down  at  the  bed's  feet,  tears  in  large  drops  trickling  down  her 
cheeks. 

Her  nurse  was  kneeling  between  the  window  and  Mrs.  Smith,  her  arms 
extended.  In  one  hand  she  held  an  ineffectual  cordial,  which  she  had  just 
been  offering  to  her  dying  mistress ;  her  face  was  swollen  with  weeping 
(though  used  to  such  scenes  as  this) ;  and  she  turned  her  eyes  towards  me, 
as  if  she  called  upon  me  by  them  to  join  in  the  helpless  sorrow ;  a  fresh 
stream  bursting  from  them  as  I  approached  the  bed.  The  maid  of  the 
house,  with  her  face  upon  her  folded  arms,  as  she  stood  leaning  against  the 
wainscot,  more  audibly  expressed  her  grief  than  any  of  the  others. 

The  lady  had  been  silent  a  few  minutes,  and  speechless,  as  they  thought, 
moving  her  lips  without  uttering  a  word ;  one  hand,  as  I  said,  in  her  cousin's. 
But  when  Mrs.  Lovick,  on  my  approach,  pronounced  my  name,  O  Mr.  Bel- 
ford,  said  she,  with  a  faint  inward  voice,  but  very  distinct  nevertheless — 
Now  ! — Now  ! — I  bless  God  for  his  mercies  to  his  poor  creature — all  will 
soon  be  over — a  few — a  very  few  moments — will  end  this  strife— and  I  shall 
be  happy ! 

Comfort  here,  sir — turning  her  head  to  the  Colonel — comfort  my  cousin 
— see  !  the  blame — able  kindness— he  would  not  wish  me  to  be  happy — so 
soon  I 

Here  she  stopped  for  two  or  three  minutes,  earnestly  looking  upon  him. 
Then  resuming,  My  dearest  cousin,  said  she,  be  comforted — what  is  dying 
but  the  common  lot  ?— The  mortal  frame  may  seem  to  labor— but  that  is  all ! 
It  is  not  so  hard  to  die  as  I  believed  it  to  be ! — The  preparation  is  the  dif- 
ficulty— I  bless  God  I  have  had  time  for  that— the  rest  is  worse  to  behold- 
ers, than  to  me !— I  am  all  blessed  hope — hope  itself.  She  looked  what  she 
taid,  a  sweet  smile  beaming  over  her  countenance. 


RICHARDSON.  423 


After  a  short  silence,  Once  more,  my  dear  cousin,  said  she,  but  still  in 
broken  accents,  commend  me  most  dutifully  to  my  father  and  mother — 
There  she  stopt.  And  then  proceeding — To  my  sister,  to  my  brother,  to 
my  uncles— and  tell  them,  I  bless  them  with  my  parting  breath— for  all 
their  goodness  to  me — even  for  their  displeasure,  I  bless  them — most  happy 
has  been  to  me  my  punishment  here  !  Happy  indeed ! 

She  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  lifting  up  her  eyes,  and  the  hand  her 
cousin  held  not  between  his.  Then,  0  Death  !  said  she,  where  is  thy  sting  ! 
And  after  a  pause — It  is  good  for  me  that  I  was  afflicted!  Words  of  scripture, 
I  suppose.  Then  turning  towards  us,  who  were  lost  in  speechless  sorrow — 

0  dear,  dear  gentlemen,  said  she,  you  know  not  what  foretastes — what  assur- 
ances—And there  she  again  stopped,  and  looked  up,  as  if  in  a  thankful 
rapture,  sweetly  smiling.     Then  turning  her  head  towards  me, — Do  you, 
sir,  tell  your  friend  (Lovelace)  that  I  forgive  him ! — And  I  pray  to  God  to 
forgive  him ! — Again  pausing,  and  lifting  up  her  eyes,  as  if  praying  that 
He  would.     Let  him  know  how  happy  I  die ; — And  that  such  as  my  own, 

1  wish  to  be  his  last  hour. 

She  was  again  silent  for  a  few  moments ;  and  then  resuming — My  sight 
fails  me! — Your  voices  only — (for  we  both  applauded  her  Christian,  her 
divine  frame,  though  in  accents  as  broken  as  her  own;)  and  the  voice  of 
grief  is  alike  in  all.  Is  not  this  Mr.  Morden's  hand  ?  pressing  one  of  his 
with  that  he  had  just  let  go.  Which  is  Mr.  Belford's?  holding  out  the 
other.  I  gave  her  mine.  God  Almighty  bless  you  both,  said  she,  and 
make  you  both — in  your  last  hour — for  you  must  come  to  this-— happy  as 
I  am. 

She  paused  again,  her  breath  growing  shorter ;  and,  after  a  few  minutes 
— And  now,  my  dearest  cousin,  give  me  your  hand — nearer — still  nearer — 
drawing  it  towards  her ;  and  she  pressed  it  with  her  dying  lips — God  pro- 
tect you,  dear,  dear  sir— and,  once  more,  receive  my  best  and  most  grateful 
thanks — and  tell  my  dear  Miss  Howe — and  vouchsafe  to  see,  and  to  tell  my 
worthy  Norton — she  will  be  one  day,  I  fear  not,  though  now  lowly  in  her 
fortunes,  a  saint  in  Heaven — tell  them  both,  that  I  remember  them  with 
thankful  blessings  in  my  last  moments! — And  pray  God  to  give  them  hap- 
piness here  for  many,  many  years,  for  the  sake  of  their  friends  and  lovers  ; 
and  a  heavenly  crown  hereafter  ;  and  such  assurances  of  it,  as  I  have,  through 
the  all-satisfying  merits  of  my  blessed  Redeemer. 

Her  sweet  voice  and  broken  periods  methinks  still  fill  my  ears,  and  never 
will  be  out  of  my  memory. 

After  a  short  silence,  in  a  more  broken  and  faint  accent — And  you,  Mr. 
Belford,  pressing  my  hand,  may  God  preserve  you,  and  make  you  sensible 
of  all  your  errors— you  see,  in  me,  how  all  ends— may  you  be— And  down 
sunk  her  head  upon  her  pillow,  she  fainting  away,  and  drawing  from  us 
both  her  hands. 

We  thought  she  was  gone ;  and  each  gave  way  to  a  violent  burst  of  grief. 
But  soon  showing  signs  of  returning  life,  our  attention  was  again  engaged ; 
and  I  besought  her,  when  a  little  recovered,  to  complete  in  my  favor  her 
half-pronounced  blessing.  She  waved  her  hand  to  us  both,  and  bowed  her 
head  six  several  times,  as  we  have  since  recollected,  as  if  distinguishing 
every  person  present ;  not  forgetting  the  nurse  and  the  maid-servant ;  the 
latter  having  approached  the  bed,  weeping,  as  if  crowding  in  for  the  divine 
lady's  blessing  ;  and  she  spoke  faltering  and  inwardly— Bless— bless— bless 
— you  all — and — now — and  now — (holding  up  her  almost  lifeless  hands  for 
the  last  time)  come — O  come — blessed  Lord — Jesus ! 


424  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

And  with  these  words,  the  last  but  half-pronounced,  expired :— such  a 
smile,  such  a  charming  serenity  overspreading  her  sweet  face  at  the  instant, 
as  seemed  to  manifest  her  eternal  happiness  already  begun.  O  Lovelace  ! 
--But  I  can  write  no  more ! 

-x-  -x-  -*  #  -::-  -;:-  •&  •&  # 

A  better  pen  than  mine  may  do  her  fuller  justice.  Thine,  I  mean,  O 
Lovelace !  For  well  dost  thou  know  how  much  she  excelled  in  the  graces 
both  of  mind  and  person,  natural  and  acquired,  all  that  is  woman.  And 
thou  also  canst  best  account  for  the  causes  of  her  immature  death,  through 
those  calamities  which  in  so  short  a  space  of  time,  from  the  highest  pitch 
of  felicity,  (every  one  in  a  manner  adoring  her,'  brought  her  to  an  exit  so 
happy  for  herself,  but,  that  it  was  so  early,  so  much  to  be  deplored  by  all 
who  had  the  honor  of  her  acquaintance. 

This  task,  then,  I  leave  to  thee ;  but  now  I  can  write  no  more,  only  that 
I  am  a  sympathizer  in  every  part  of  thy  distress,  except  (and  yet  it  is  cruel 
to  say  it)  in  that  which  arises  from  thy  guilt. 

LETTER   418. 
MR.  LOVELACE  TO  MR.  BELFORD. 

Monday,  Sep.  18. 

Heavy,  d — n— y  heavy  and  sick  at  soul,  by  Jupiter  I  I  must  come  into 
their  expedient.  I  must  see  what  change  of  climate  will  do. 

You  tell  these  fellows,  and  you  tell  me,  of  repenting  and  reforming ;  but 
I  can  do  neither.  He  who  can,  must  not  have  the  extinction  of  a  Clarissa 
Harlowe  to  answer  for. — Harlowe  ! — Curse  upon  the  name  ! — and  curse 
upon  myself  for  not  changing  it,  as  I  might  have  done ! — Yet  I  have  no 
need  of  urging  a  curse  upon  myself — I  have  it  effectually. 

"  To  say  I  once  respected  you  with  a  preference  ! " — Tn  what  stiff  lan- 
guage does  maidenly  modesty,  on  these  nice  occasions,  express  itself !  To 
say  I  once  loved  you,  is  the  English;  and  there  is  truth  and  ease  in  that 
expression. — "  To  say  I  once  loved  you,"  then  let  it  be,  "  is  what  I  ought 
to  blush  to  own."  And  dost  thou  own  it,  excellent  creature  ? — and  dost 
thou  then  own  it  ? — What  music  in  these  words  from  such  an  angel ! — 
What  would  1  give  that  my  Clarissa  were  in  being,  and  could,  and  would, 
own  that  she  loved  me ! 

"  But,  indeed,  sir,  I  have  long  been  greatly  above  you."  Long,  my  blessed 
charmer ! — Long,  indeed ;  for  you  have  been  ever  greatly  above  me,  and 
above  your  sex,  and  above  all  the  world.  "That  preference  was  not 
grounded  on  ignoble  motives."  What  a  wretch  was  I,  to  be  so  distin- 
guished by  her,  and  yet  to  be  so  unworthy  of  her  hope  to  reclaim  me ! 
Then,  how  generous  her  motives !  Not  for  her  own  sake  merely,  not  alto- 
gether for  mine,  did  she  hope  to  reclaim  me ;  but  equally  for  the  sake  of 
innocents  who  might  otherwise  be  ruined  by  me. 

And  now,  why  did  she  write  this  letter,  and  why  direct  it  to  be  given  me 
when  an  event  the  most  deplorable  had  taken  place,  but  for  my  good,  and 
with  a  view  to  the  safety  of  innocents  she  knew  not  ? — And  when  was  this 
letter  written  ?  Was  it  not  at  the  time,  at  the  very  time,  that  I  had  been 
pursuing  her,  as  I  may  say,  from  place  to  place ;  when  her  soul  was  bowed 
down  by  calamity  and  persecution ;  and  herself  was  denied  all  forgiveness 
from  relations  the  most  implacable  ? 


RICHARDSON.  425 


Exalted  creature ! — And  couldst  thou,  at  such  a  time,  and  so  early,  and  in 
suck  circumstances,  have  so  far  subdued  thy  own  just  resentments,  as  to  wish 
happiness  to  the  principal  author  of  all  thy  distresses  ? — Wish  happiness 
to  him  who  had  robbed  thee  "  of  all  thy  favorite  expectations  in  this  life  "  ? 
To  him  who  had  been  the  cause  "  that  thou  wert  cut  off  in  the  bloom  of 
youth  ?  " 

Heavenly  aspirer !— What  a  frame  must  thou  be  in,  to  be  able  to  use  the 
word  Only  in  mentioning  these  important  deprivations ! — And  as  this  wus 
before  thou  puttedst  off  mortality,  may  I  not  presume  that  thou  now, 

with  pitying  eye, 

Not  derogating  from  thj'  perfect  bliss, 

Survey's!  all  Heav'n  around,  and  wishest  for  me? 

"  Consider  my  ways." — Dear  life  of  my  life !  Of  what  avail  is  consider- 
ation now,  when  1  have  lost  the  dear  creature,  for  whose  sake  alone  it  was 
worth  while  to  have  consideration  ? — Lost  her  beyond  retrieving — swallowed 
up  by  the  greedy  grave — for  ever  lost  her — that,  that  'is  the  sting — matchless 
woman,  how  does  this  reflection  wound  me ! 

"  Your  golden  dream  cannot  long  last." — Divine  prophetess !  my  golden 
dream  is  already  over.  "  Thought  and  reflection  are  no  longer  to  be  kept 
off." — No  longer  continues  that  "  hardened  insensibility  "  thou  chargest  upon 
me.  Dreadful  is  my  condition  ;  it  is  all  reproach  and  horror  with  me  !— 
A  thousand  vultures  in  turn  are  preying  upon  my  heart ! 

But  no  more  of  these  fruitless  reflections— since  I  am  incapable  of  writ- 
ing anything  else ;  since  my  pen  will  slide  into  this  gloomy  subject,  whether 
1  will  or  not ;  1  will  once  more  quit  it ;  nor  will  1  again  resume  it,  till  I 
can  be  more  its  master,  and  my  own. 

"  The  ^reat  excellence  of  Richardson's  novels  consists,  we  think, 
in  the  unparalleled  minuteness  and  copiousness  of  his  descriptions, 
and  in  the  pains  he  takes  to  make  us  thoroughly  and  intimately 
acquainted  with  every  particular 'in  the  character  and  situation  of 
the  personages  with  whom  we  are  occupied.  With  him,  we  slip, 
invisible,  into  the  domestic  privacy  of  his.  characters,  and  hear  and 
see  everything  that  is  said  and  done  among  them,  whether  it  be 
interesting  or  otherwise,  and  whether  it  gratify  our  curiosity  or 
disappoint  it. 

"  In  this  art  Richardson  is  undoubtedly  without  an  equal,  and, 
if  we  except  De  Foe,  without  a  competitor,  we  believe,  in  the 
whole  history  of  literature.  We  are  often  fatigued  as  we  listen  to 
his  prolix  descriptions,  and  the  repetitions  of  those  rambling  and 
inconclusive  conversations,  in  which  so  many  passages  are  con- 
sumed without  any  apparent  progress  in  the  story;  but  by  means 
of  all  this  we  get  so  intimately  acquainted  with  the  characters, 
and  so  impressed  with  a  persuasion  of  their  reality,  that  when 
anything  really  disastrous  or  important  occurs  to  them,  we  feel  as 
for  old  friends  and  companions,  and  are  irresistibly  led  to  as  lively 
a  conception  of  their  sensations  as  if  we  had  been  spectators  of  a 


426  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

real  transaction.  This  we  certainly  think  the  chief  merit  of  Rich- 
ardson's productions ;  for,  great  as  his  knowledge  of  the  human 
heart,  and  his  powers  of  pathetic  description,  must  be  admitted  to 
be,  we  are  of  opinion  that  he  might  have  been  equalled  in  these 
particulars  by  many  whose  productions  are  infinitely  less  inter- 
esting. 

"Richardson's  good  people  are  too  wise  and  too  formal  ever  to 
appear  in  the  light  of  desirable  companions,  or  to  excite  in  a  youth- 
ful mind  any  wish  to  resemble  them.  The  gaiety  of  all  his  char- 
acters, too,  is  extremely  girlish  and  silly,  and  is  much  more  like 
the  prattle  of  spoiled  children  than  the  wit  and  pleasantry  of  per- 
sons acquainted  with  the  world.  The  diction  throughout  is  heavy, 
vulgar,  and  embarrassed ;  though  the  interest  of  the  tragical  scenes 
is  too  powerful  to  allow  us  to  attend  to  any  inferior  consideration. 
The  novels  of  Richardson,  in  short,  though  praised  perhaps  some- 
what beyond  their  merits,  will  always  be  read  with  admiration."* 


Francis  Jeffrey  in  the  Edinburgh  Review: 


HENRY    FIELDING. 


HENRY  FIELDING  was  born  of  noble,  but  not  wealthy,  parents, 
April  22,  1707,  at  Sharpham  Park,  in  Somersetshire.  After 
being  instructed  in  the  rudiments  of  a  common  education  by  a 
private  tutor,  he  was  sent  to  Eton,  where  his  progress  in  class- 
ical studies  was  so  rapid  that,  before  he  wras  sixteen,  he  had 
acquired  a  sound  knowledge  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  tongues ; 
and  at  eighteen  was  thought  qualified  for  entering  the  Univer- 
sity of  Leyden.  The  slenderness  of  his  father's  means,  however, 
as  well  as  his  own  improvident  habits,  compelled  his  return  from 
Leyden  in  1727. 

Thrown  upon  his  own  resources,  he  at  once  repaired  to  Lon- 
don, where  his  vivacity,  wit,  accomplishments,  and  sociableness 
readily  procured  him  friends  and  admirers,  among  whom  was 
Garrick,  £he  celebrated  actor.  Influenced,  doubtless,  by  the 
latter,  he  at  once  began  writing  for  the  stage,  and  produced  in 
1727  his  first  comedy,  Love  in  several  Masques.  For  the  next 
ten  years  he  devoted  his  talents  exclusively  to  this  species  of 
composition,  writing,  rather  for  money  than  for  reputation, 
some  eighteen  theatrical  pieces.  "  It  is  most  probable  that  his 
inferiority  as  a  dramatist  is  partly  to  be  attributed  to  the  rapid 
manner  in  which  he  composed  his  plays,  and  to  the  unfavorable 
situation  in  which  he  was  placed,  as  well  as  to  the  disadvantage 
of  his  having  commenced  so  difficult  a  species  of  composition  at 
too  early  a  period  of  life."  * 

The  meager  income  he  derived  from  this  sort  of  literary 
drudgery,  added  to  the  small  fortune  of  his  wife,  and  the  reve- 
nue of  a  petty  estate  of  his  own,  were  all  rapidly  consumed  by 
his  imprudent  and  lavish  mode  of  living  ;  and  at  thirty,  he  was 
obliged  to  resort  to  an  additional  vocation  for  retrieving  his 
ruined  finances.  This  new  employment  was  the  law.  He  pros- 

*  Memoir  of  Henry  Fielding,  by  Thomas  Roscoe. 

427 


428  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

ecuted  his  studies  with  great  application,  and  was  admitted  to 
the  bar,  but  met  with  only  small  success  as  a  practitioner. 

Whilst  thus  occupied,  pecuniary  embarrassments  obliged  him 
to  resume  writing  for  the  stage.  Moreover,  during  this  period, 
he  penned  numerous  prefaces,  poems,  criticisms,  and  essays  and 
tracts  upon  political  and  social  topics.  "  The  True  Patriot " 
was  the  name  of  an  anti-jacobin  paper  which  Fielding  projected, 
and  in  which  he  "  displayed  a  solid  knowledge  of  the  British 
laws  and  government,  as  well  as  brilliant  sallies  of  humor, 
which  would  have  appeared  to  no  disadvantage  among  the 
political  compositions  of  his  most  distinguished  predecessors."  * 

We  have  now  come  to  the  last  and  most  important  epoch  of 
Fielding's  life,  that  in  which  he  discovered  his  real  literary 
genius  in  the  composition  of  works  of  fiction.  His  first  was  the 
Journey  from  This  World  to  the  Next — a  satire  upon  the  follies 
and  vices  of  the  age,  and  its  aristocratic  representatives.  The 
next,  Jonathan  Wild,  is  an  ironical  panegyric  of  the  life  of  a 
villain,  wherein  the  false  estimate  generally  put  upon  glory  is 
mercilessly  satirized.  These,  however,  in  point  of  merit  and 
popularity,  must  be  considered  as  only  introductory  to  his  main 
works,  Joseph  Andrews,  Tom  Jones,  and  Amelia. 

The  first  was  published  in  1742,  and  was  evidently  intended 
to  burlesque  Richardson's  "  Pamela."  Tom  Jones,  our  author's 
greatest  achievement,  was  given  to  the  public  about  1750,  while 
Fielding  was  fulfilling  the  duties  of  a  magistrate  at  Westmin- 
ster. It  was  written  through  a  long  series  of  years  at  such 
moments  of  respite  as  sordid  duties  and  acute  infirmities  spared 
him.  Amelia  followed  in  1751.  "  In  point  of  general  excel- 
lence it  has  commonly  been  considered,  no  less  by  critics,  per- 
haps, than  by  the  public,  as  decidedly  inferior  to  Tom  Jones. 
In  variety  and  invention  it  assuredly  is  so.  Its  chief  merit 
depends  less  on  its  artful  and  elaborate  construction  than  on  the 
interesting  series  it  presents  of  domestic  paintings,  drawn  from 
his  own  family  history.  It  has  more  pathos,  more  moral  lessons, 
with  far  less  vigor  and  humor,  than  either  of  its  predecessors."  * 

In  hopes  of  repairing  a  constitution  originally  vigorous,  but 
sadly  shattered  by  the  indiscretions  and  follies  of  his  life,  as 

*  Memoir,  by  Roscoe. 


FIELDING.  429 


well  as  by  excessive  and  honorable  toil,  he  took  passage  for  Lis- 
bon in  June,  1754.  But  alas!  the  attempt  was  made  too  late; 
for  here,  instead  of  returning  life,  he  met  approaching  death,  on 
the  8th  of  October  following  his  arrival. 

Our  first  extract  shall  be  from  Tom  Jones,  Book  I.,  Chap- 
ter IV. : 

The  Gothic  style  of  building  could  produce  nothing  nobler  than  Mr. 
Allworthy's  house.  There  was  an  air  of  grandeur  in  it  that  struck  you 
with  awe,  and  rivalled  the  beauties  of  the  best  Grecian  architecture ;  and 
it  was  as  commodious  within  as  venerable  without.  It  stood  on  the  south- 
east side  of  a  hill,  but  nearer  the  bottom  than  the  top  of  it,  so  as  to  be 
sheltered  from  the  north-east  by  a  grove  of  old  oaks  which  rose  above  it  in 
a  gradual  ascent  of  near  half  a  mile,  and  yet  high  enough  to  enjoy  a  most 
charming  prospect  of  the  valley  beneath. 

In  the  midst  of  the  grove  was  a  fine  lawn,  sloping  down  towards  the 
house,  near  the  summit  of  which  rose  a  plentiful  spring,  gushing  out  of  a 
rock  covered  with  fir,  and  forming  a  constant  cascade  of  about  thirty  feet, 
not  carried  down  a  regular  flight  of  steps,  but  tumbling  in  a  natural  fall 
over  the  broken  and  mossy  stones  till  it  came  to  the  bottom  of  the  rock, 
then  running  off  in  a  pebbly  channel,  that  with  many  lesser  falls  winded 
along,  till  it  fell  into  a  lake  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
below  the  house  on  the  south  side,  and  which  was  seen  from  every  room  in 
the  front.  Out  of  this  lake,  which  filled  the  center  of  a  beautiful  plain, 
embellished  with  groups  of  beeches  and  elms,  and  fed  with  sheep,  issued  a 
river,  that  fqr  several  miles  was  seen  to  meander  through  an  amazing 
variety  of  meadows  and  woods  till  it  emptied  itself  into  the  sea,  with  a  large 
arm  of  which,  and  an  island  beyond  it,  the  prospect  was  closed. 

On  the  right  of  this  valley  opened  another  of  less  extent,  adorned  with 
several  villages,  and  terminated  by  one  of  the  towers  of  an  old  ruined 
Abbey,  grown  over  with  ivy,  and  part  of  the  front  of  which  remained  still 
entire.  The  left-hand  scene  presented  the  view  of  a  very  fine  park,  com- 
posed of  very  unequal  ground,  and  agreeably  varied  with  all  the  diversity 
that  hills,  lawns,  wood,  and  water,  laid  out  with  admirable  taste,  but  owing 
less  to  art  than  to  nature,  could  give.  Beyond  this,  the  country  gradually 
rose  into  a  ridge  of  wild  mountains,  the  tops  of  which  were  above  the 
clouds. 

It  was  now  the  middle  of  May,  and  the  morning  was  remarkably  serene, 
when  Mr.  Allworthy  walked  forth  on  the  terrace,  where  the  dawn  opened 
every  minute  that  lovely  prospect  we  have  before  described  to  his  eye ;  and 
now  having  sent  forth  streams  of  light,  which  ascended  the  blue  firmament 
before  him,  as  harbingers  preceding  his  pomp,  in  the  full  blaze  of  his 
majesty  up  rose  the  sun,  than  which  one  object  alone  in  this  lower  creation 
could  be  more  glorious,  and  that  Mr.  Allworthy  himself  presented — a 
human  being  replete  with  benevolence,  meditating  in  what  manner  he 
might  render  himself  most  acceptable  to  his  Creator,  by  doing  most  good  to 
his  creatures. 

Reader,  take  care.  I  have  unadvisedly  led  thee  to  the  top  of  as  high  a 
hill  as  Mr.  Allworthy's,  and  how  to  get  thee  down  without  breaking  thy 
neck,  I  do  not  well  know.  However,  let  us  e'en  venture  to  slide  down 


430  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

together ;  for  Miss  Bridget  rings  her  bell,  and  Mr.  Allworthy  is  summoned 
to  breakfast,  where  I  must  attend,  and,  if  you  please,  shall  be  glad  of  your 
company. 

The  usual  compliments  having  passed  between  Mr.  Allworthy  and  Miss 
Bridget,  and  the  tea  being  poured  out,  he  summoned  Mrs.  Wilkins,.  and  told 
his  sister  he  had  a  present  for  her,  for  which  she  thanked  him,— imagining, 
I  suppose,  it  had  been  a  gown,  or  some  ornament  for  her  person.  Indeed, 
he  very  often  made  her  such  presents ;  and  she,  in  complaisance  to  him, 
spent  much  time  in  adorning  herself.  I  say  in  complaisance  to  him, 
because  she  always  expressed  the  greatest  contempt  for  dress,  and  for  those 
ladies  who  made  it  their  study. 

But  if  such  was  her  expectation,  how  was  she  disappointed  when  Mrs. 
Wilkins,  according  to  the  order  she  had  received  from  her  master,  pro- 
duced the  little  infant  (Tom  Jones) !  Great  surprises,  as  hath  been 
observed,  are  apt  to  be  silent ;  and  so  was  Miss  Bridget,  till  her  brother 
began,  and  told  her  the  whole  story. 

Miss  Bridget  had  always  expressed  so  great  a  regard  for  what  the  ladies 
are  pleased  to  call  virtue,  and  had  herself  maintained  such  a  severity  of 
character,  that  it  was  expected,  especially  by  Mrs.  Wilkins,  that  she  would 
have  vented  much  bitterness  upon  this  occasion,  and  would  have  voted  for 
sending  the  child,  as  a  kind  of  noxious  animal,  immediately  out  of  the 
house :  but,  on  the  contrary,  she  rather  took  the  good-natured  side  of  the 
question,  intimated  some  compassion  for  the  helpless  little  creature,  and 
commended  her  brother's  charity  in  what  he  had  done. 

However,  what  she  withheld  from  the  infant,  she  bestowed  with  the 
utmost  profuseness  on  the  poor  unknown  mother,  whom  she  called  an 
impudent  slut,  a  wanton  hussy,  an  audacious  harlot,  a  wicked  jade,  a  vile 
strumpet,  with  every  other  appellation  with  which  the  tongue  of  virtue 
never  fails  to  lash  those  who  bring  a  disgrace  on  the  sex. 

BOOK  III. — CHAPTER  II. 
The  hero  of  this  great  history  appears  with  very  bad  omens. 

As  we  determined,  when  we  first  sat  down  to  write  this  history,  to  flatter 
no  man,  but  to  guide  our  pen  throughout  by  the  directions  of  truth,  we  are 
obliged  to  bring  our  hero  on  the  stage  in  a  much  more  disadvantageous 
manner  than  we  could  wish :  and  to  declare  honestly,  even  at  his  first 
appearance,  that  it  was  the  universal  opinion  of  all  Mr.  A 11  worthy's  fam- 
ily, that  he  was  certainly  born  to  be  hanged. 

Indeed,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  that  there  was  too  much  reason  for  this  con- 
jecture ;  the  lad  having,  from  his  earliest  years,  discovered  a  propensity 
to  many  vices,  and  especially  to  one  which  hath  as  direct  a  tendency  as 
any  other  to  that  fate  which  we  have  just  now  observed  to  have  been  pro- 
phetically denounced  against  him :  he  had  been  already  convicted  of  three 
robberies,  viz.,  of  robbing  an  orchard,  of  stealing  a  duck  out  of  a  farmer's 
yard,  and  of  picking  Master  Blifil's  (Mr.  Allworthy's  nephew)  pocket  of  a 
ball. 

Tom  Jones,  who,  bad  as  he  is,  must  serve  for  the  hero  of  this  history, 
had  only  one  friend  among  all  the  servants  of  the  family ;  for  as  to  Mrs. 
Wilkins,  she  had  long  since  given  him  up,  and  was  perfectly  reconciled  to 
her  mistress.  This  friend  was  the  gamekeeper,  a  fellow  of  a  loose  kind  of 
disposition,  and  who  was  thought  not  to  entertain  much  stricter  notions 
concerning  the  difference  of  meum  and  taum  than  the  young  gentleman 


FIELDING.  431 


himself.  And  hence  this  friendship  gave  occasion  to  many  sarcastical 
remarks  among  the  domestics,  most  of  which  were  either  proverbs  before, 
or  at  least  are  become  so  now :  and,  indeed,  the  wit  of  them  all  may  be 
comprised  in  that  short  Latin  proverb,  "  Noxcitur  a  socio  ;  "  which,  I  think, 
is  thus  expressed  in  English,  "  You  may  know  him  by  the  company  he 
keeps." 

To  say  the  truth,  some  of  that  atrocious  wickedness  in  Jones,  of  Avhich 
we  have  just  mentioned  three  examples,  might  perhaps  be  derived  from 
the  encouragement  he  had  received  from  this  fellow,  who  in  two  or  three 
instances  had  been  what  the  law  calls  an  accessory  after  the  fact :  for  the 
whole  duck,  and  great  part  of  the  apples,  were  converted  to  the  use  of  the 
gamekeeper  and  his  family ;  though,  as  Jones  alone  was  discovered,  the 
poor  lad  bore  not  only  the  whole  smart,  but  the  whole  blame ;  both  which 
fell  again  to  his  lot  on  the  following  occasion. 

Contiguous  to  Mr.  Allworthy's  estate  was  the  manor  of  one  of  those  gen- 
tlemen who  are  called  preservers  of  the  game.  This  species  of  men,  from 
the  great  severity  with  which  they  revenge  the  death  of  a  hare,  or  a  par- 
tridge, might  be  thought  to  cultivate  the  same  superstition  with  the  Ban- 
nians  in  India;  many  of  whom,  we  are  told,  dedicate  their  whole  lives  to 
the  preservation  and  protection  of  certain  animals ;  was  it  not  that  our 
English  Bannians,  while  they  preserve  them  from  other  enemies,  will  most 
unmercifully  slaughter  whole  horse-loads  themselves ;  so  that  they  stand 
clearly  acquitted  of  any  such  heathenish  superstition. 

Little  Jones  went  one  day  a-shooting  with  the  gamekeeper ;  when  hap- 
pening to  spring  a  covey  of  partridges  near  the  border  of  that  manor  over 
which  Fortune,  to  fulfil  the  wise  purposes  of  Nature,  had  planted  one  of 
the  game-consumers,  the  birds  flew  into  it,  and  were  marked,  ( as  it  is  called, ) 
by  the  two  sportsmen,  in  some  furze-bushes,  about  two  or  three  hundred 
paces  beyond  Mr.  Allworthy's  dominions. 

Mr.  Allworthy  had  given  the  fellow  strict  orders,  on  pain  of  forfeiting 
his  place,  never  to  trespass  on  any  of  his  neighbors ;  no  more  on  those  who 
were  less  rigid  in  this  matter,  than  on  the  lord  of  this  manor.  With  re- 
gard to  others,  indeed,  these  orders  had  not  been  always  very  scrupulously 
kept ;  but,  as  the  disposition  of  the  gentleman  with  whom  the  partridges 
had  taken  sanctuary  was  well  known,  the  gamekeeper  had  never  yet  at- 
tempted to  invade  his  territories.  Nor  had  he  done  it  now,  had  not  the 
younger  sportsman,  who  was  excessively  eager  to  pursue  the  flying  game, 
over-persuaded  him ;  but  Jones  being  very  importunate,  the  other,  who 
was  himself  keen  enough  after  the  sport,  yielded  to  his  persuasioas,  entere \ 
the  manor,  and  shot  one  of  the  partridges. 

The  gentleman  himself  was  at  that  time  on  horseback,  at  a  little  distance 
from  them  ;  and,  hearing  the  gun  go  off,  he  immediately  made  towards  the 
place,  and  discovered  poor  Tom ;  for  the  gamekeeper  had  leapt  into  the 
thickest  part  of  the  furze-break,  where  he  had  happily  concealed  himself. 

The  gentleman  having  searched  the  lad,  and  found  the  partridge  upon 
him,  denounced  great  vengeance,  swearing  he  would  acquaint  Mr.  All- 
worthy.  He  was  as  good  as  his  word ;  for  he  rode  immediately  to  his 
house,  and  complained  of  the  trespass  on  his  manor  in  as  high  terms,  and 
as  bitter  language,  as  if  his  house  had  been  broken  open,  and  the  most  valu- 
able furniture  stole  out  of  it.  He  added,  that  some  other  person  was  in  his 
company,  though  he  could  not  discover  him ;  for  that  two  guns  had  been 
discharged  almost  in  the  same  instant.  And,  says  he,  "  We  have  found 
only  this  partridge,  but  the  Lord  knows  what  mischief  they  have  done." 


432  MANUAL    OF  EXGLFSir  LITERATURE. 


At  his  return  home,  Tom  was  presently  convened  before  Mr.  All-worthy. 
Re  owned  the  fact,  and  alleged  no  other  excuse  but  what  was  really  true, 
viz.,  that  the  covey  was  originally  sprung  in  Mr.  Allworthy's  own  manor. 

Tom  was  then  interrogated  who  wras  with  him,  which  Mr.  Allworthy 
declared  he  was  resolved  to  know,  acquainting  the  culprit  with  the  circum- 
stance of  the  two  guns,  which  had  been  deposed  by  the  squire  and  both  his 
servants  ;  Tom  stoutly  persisted  in  asserting  that  he  was  alone  ;  yet,  to  say 
the  truth,  he  hesitated  a  little  at  first,  which  would  have  confirmed  Mr. 
Allworthy's  belief,  had  what  the  squire  and  his  servants  said  wanted  any 
further  confirmation. 

The  gamekeeper  being  a  suspected  person,  was  now  sent  for,  and  the 
question  put  to  him ;  but  he,  relying  on  the  promise  which  Tom  had  made 
him,  to  take  all  upon  himself,  very  resolutely  denied  being  in  company  with 
the  young  gentleman,  or  indeed  having  seen  him  the  whole  afternoon. 

Mr.  Allworthy  then  turned  towards  Tom,  with  more  than  usual  anger  in 
his  countenance,  and  advised  him  to  confess  who  was  with  him ;  repeating, 
that  he  was  resolved  to  know.  The  lad,  however,  still  maintained  his  reso- 
lution, and  was  dismissed  writh  much  wrath  by  Mr.  Allworthy,  who  told 
him  he  should  have  to  the  next  morning  to  consider  it,  when  he  should  be 
questioned  by  another  person,  and  in  another  manner. 

Poor  Jones  spent  a  melancholy  night ;  and  the  more  so,  as  lie  was  with- 
out his  usual  companion,  for  Master  Blifil  was  gone  abroad  on  a  visit  with 
his  mother.  Fear  of  the  punishment  he  was  to  suffer  was  on  this  occasion 
his  least  evil ;  his  chief  anxiety  being,  lest  his  constancv  should  fail  him, 
and  he  should  be  brought  to  betray  the  gamekeeper,  whose  ruin  he  knew 
must  now  be  the  consequence.  Nor  did  the  gamekeeper  pass  his  time 
much  better.  He  had  the  same  apprehensions  with  the  youth :  for  whose 
honor  he  had  likewise  a  much  tenderer  regard  than  for  his  skin. 

In  the  morning,  when  Tom  attended  the  Reverend  Mr.  Thwackum,  the 
person  to  whom  Mr.  Allworthy  had  committed  the  instructions  of  the  two 
boys,  he  had  the  same  questions  put  to  him  by  that  gentleman  which  he 
had  been  ask«d  the  evening  before,  to  which  he  returned  the  same  answers. 
The  consequence  of  this  was,  so  severe  a  whipping,  that  it  possibly  fell  little 
short  of  the  torture  with  which  confessions  are  in  some  countries  extorted 
from  criminals.  Tom  bore  his  punishment  with  great  resolution ;  and 
though  his  masier  asked  him,  between  every  stroke,  whether  he  would  not 
confess,  he  was  contented  to  be  flayed  rather  than  betray  his  friend,  or 
break  the  promise  he  had  made. 

The  gamekeeper  was  now  relieved  from  his  anxiety,  and  Mr.  Allworthy 
himself  began  to  be  concerned  at  Tom's  sufferings :  i'or  besides  that  Mr. 
Thwackum,  being  highly  enraged  that  he  was  not  able  to  make  the  boy  say 
what  he  himself  pleased,  had  carried  his  severity  beyond  the  good  man's 
intention,  this  latter  began  now  to  suspect  that  the  squire  had  been  mis- 
taken ;  which  his  extreme  eagerness  and  anger  seemed  to  make  probable ; 
and  as  for  what  the  servants  had  said  in  confirmation  of  their  master's 
account,  he  laid  no  great  stress  upon  that.  Now,  as  cruelty  and  injustice 
were  two  ideas  of  which  Mr.  Allworthy  could  by  no  means  support  the 
consciousness  a  single  moment,  he  sent  for  Tom,  and  after  many  kind  and 
friendly  exhortations,  said,  "  I  am  convinced,  my  dear  child,  that  my  sus- 
picions have  wronged  you  ;  I  am  sorry  that  you  have  been  so  severely  pun- 
ished on  this  account."  And  at  last  gave  him  a  little  horse  to  make 
amends ;  again  repeating  his  sorrow  for  what  had  passed. 


FIELDING.  433 


Tom's  guilt  now  flew  in  his  face  more  than  any  severity  could  make  it.  He 
could  more  easily  bear  the  lashes  of  Thwackum  than  the  generosity  of 
Allworthy.  The  tears  burst  from  his  eyes,  and  he  fell  upon  his  knees, 
crying,  "  Oh  !  sir,  you  are  too  good  to  me.  Indeed  you  are.  Indeed  I  don't 
deserve  it."  And  at  that  very  instant,  from  the  fullness  of  his  heart,  had 
almost  betrayed  the  secret ;  but  the  good  genius  of  the  gamekeeper  suggested 
to  him  what  might  be  the  consequence  to  the  poor  fellow,  and  this  consider- 
ation sealed  his  lips. 

Thwackum  did  all  he  could  to  dissuade  Allworthy  from  showing  any 
compassion  or-  kindness  to  the  boy,  saying,  "  He  had  persisted  in  an  un- 
truth : "  and  gave  some  hints  that  a  second  whipping  might  probably  bring 
the  matter  to  light.  But  Mr.  Allworthy  absolutely  refused  to  consent  to  the 
experiment.  He  said,  the  boy  had  suffered  enough  already  for  concealing 
the  truth,  even  if  he  was  guilty,  seeing  that  he  could  have  no  motive  but  a 
mistaken  point  of  honor  for  so  doing. 

"Honor!"  cried  Thwackum,  with  some  warmth,  "mere  stubbornness 
and  obstinacy !  Can  honor  teach  any  one  to  tell  a  lie,  or  can  any  honor 
exist  independent  of  religion  ?  " 

"When  we  read  Fielding's  novels  after  those  of  Richardson,  we 
feel  as  if  a  stupendous  pressure  were  removed  from  our  souls.  We 
seem  suddenly  to  have  left  a  palace  of  enchantment,  where  we  have 
passed  through  long  galleries  filled  with  the  most  gorgeous  images, 
and  illumined  by  a  light  not  quite  human,  nor  yet  quite  divine, 
into  the  fresh  ^ir,  and  the  common  ways  of  this  '  bright  and  breath- 
ing world.'  We  travel  on  the  high  road  of  humanity,  yet  meet  in 
it  pleasanter  companions,  and  catch  more  delicious  snatches  of 
refreshment,  than  ever  we  can  hope  elsewhere  to  enjoy. 

"  The  mock  heroic  of  Fielding,  when  he  condescends  to  that 
ambiguous  style,  is  scarcely  less  pleasing  than  its  stately  prototype. 
It  is  a  sort  of  spirited  defiance  to  fiction,  on  the  behalf  of  reality, 
by  one  who  knew  full  well  all  the  strongholds  of  that  nature  which 
he  was  defending.  There  is  not  in  Fielding  much  of  that  which 
can  properly  be  called  ideal — if  we  except  the  character  of  Parson 
Adams;  but  his  works  represent  life  as  more  delightful  than  it 
seems  to  common  experience,  by  disclosing  those  of  its  dear  im- 
munities, which  we  little  think  of,  even  when  we  enjoy  them.  How 
delicious  are  all  his  refreshments  at  all  his  inns!  How  vivid  are 
the  transient  joys  of  his  heroes,  in  their  checkered  course— how 
full  and  overflowing  are  their  final  raptures !  "  * 

*  T.  Noon  Talfourd's  Essay  on  British  Novels  and  Romances. 
37  2C 


DANIEL    DE    FOE. 


DANIEL  DE  FOE — or  Daniel  Foe,  as  his  name  was  originally 
Epelled — was  born  in  the  parish  of  St.  Giles',  Cripplegate,  Lon- 
don, in  the  year  1661.  The  Non-conformist  faith  of  his  parents, 
and  his  early  home  discipline  in  the  principles  of  the  severest 
moral  rectitude,  exercised  an  important  influence  upon  his  whole 
after-life. 

From  the  hands  of  ordinary  tutors  he  passed,  at  fourteen,  to 
an  academy  at  Newington  Green ;  where,  according  to  his  own 
statement,  he  mastered  five  languages  ;  made  considerable  prog- 
ress in  mathematics,  the  sciences,  logic,  and  history ;  went 
through  a  complete  course  in  theology ;  and  studied  politics 
enthusiastically. 

De  Foe  began  life  as  an  author  at  twenty-one,  his  first  work 
being  Speculum  Orape-Gownorum,  etc. — a  defense  of  the  dissent- 
ing ministry  against  the  taunts  and  aspersions  of  the  established 
clergy.  A  few  years  after,  we  find  him  as  a  soldier  among  the 
number  of  those  who  had  espoused  the  cause  of  the  hapless 
Duke  of  Monmouth ;  but  with  singular  good  fortune  he  escapes 
the  sad  fate  of  many  of  his  comrades,  and  settles  down  to  trade 
in  London.  His  mercantile  transactions,  though  successful  at 
times,  were  in  the  end  disastrous ; — a  fate  which,  no  doubt,  is 
very  largely  to  be  attributed  to  a  neglect  of  his  business  affairs 
while  bestowing  especial  attention  upon  literary  and  polite  pur- 
suits. 

About  1697  De  Foe  published  his  Essay  upon  Projects, — a 
clear  and  ingenious  discussion  of  the  political,  commercial,  and 
benevolent  questions  of  the  day.  The  True-Born  Englishman, 
a  celebrated  satire  in  verse,  directed  against  a  quite  prevalent 
i'eeling  of  hostility  against  King  William  and  his  Dutch  favor- 
ites, appeared  in  1701 ;  and  had  the  double  effect  of  greatly 
mollifying  the  offensive  public  sentiment,  and  of  commending 
its  author  to  royal  favor. 

434 


DE  FOE.  435 


In  the  character  of  an  Ultra  High  Churchman,  De  Foe,  in 
1702,  published  The  Shortest  Way  with  the  Dissenters:  which 
shortest  way  was  represented  to  consist  in  a  free  use  of  the  gal- 
lows and  galleys  as  extirpaters  of  perverse  believers.  The  im- 
mediate effect  of  the  book  was  to  ingratiate  its  author  in  the 
good  opinion  of  the  High  Churchmen,  and  to  involve  him  in  the 
scorn  and  obloquy  of  his  late  associates,  the  Dissenters.  But 
when,  soon  after,  it  was  ascertained  that  the  writer  had  assumed 
these  views  for  the  sole  purpose  of  committing  the  High  Church 
party  to  an  avowal  of  the  most  intolerant  measures  imaginable, 
the  rage  of  the  duped  party  would  not  be  appeased  until  it  had 
effected  the  imprisonment  of  its  object.  De  Foe  was  sentenced 
to  pay  a  fine  of  200  marks,  to  stand  three  times  in  the  pillory, 
and  to  be  imprisoned  during  the  queen's  pleasure.  As  to  the 
real  ignominy  attending  his  standing  in  the  pillory,  he  himself 
has  attested  that  "  the  people,  who  were  expected  to  treat  him 
very  ill,  on  the  contrary  pitied  him,  and  wished  those  who  set 
him  there  were  placed  in  his  room,  and  expressed  .their  affec- 
tions byUoud  shouts  and  acclamations  when  he  was  taken  down." 
Neither  did  Newgate  prison  prove  so  detrimental  as  his  enemies 
had  hoped  it  would  ;  for  while  here  he  wrote  many  of  his  politi- 
cal works,  and  projected  his  "  Review  " — a  periodical  which  was 
published  about  three  times  a  week  for  nine  years.  The  Queen 
herself  at  length  procured  his  release,  and,  by  way  of  repara- 
tion, conferred  favors  not  a  few  upon  him. 

In  1706  De  Foe  wrote  voluminously  in  favor  of  the  union 
with  Scotland;  and  when,  shortly  afterwards,  this  event  was 
consummated,  he  celebrated  it  by  the  publication  of  The  Union 
of  Great  Britain. 

About  1715,  after  a  conflict  of  thirty -years.  De  Foe  retired 
from  the  arena  of  political  writing  into  the  more  congenial 
walks  of  fiction.  Chief  of  all  his  writings  of  this  class  is  Rob- 
inson Crusoe,  produced  in  1719.  The  bare  idea  of  the  work  was 
doubtless  suggested  by  the  narrative  of  Alexander  Selkirk,  a 
solitary  inhabitant  for  several  years  of  the  Island  of  Juan  Fer- 
nandez ;  but  for  all  the  elements  that  have  immortalized  and 
universalized  this  work — its  simplicity  of  style,  vividness  of 
language,  and  its  fertility,  plausibility,  and  interest  of  incident, 
it  is  wholly  indebted  to  De  Foe's  extraordinary  genius. 


436  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Succeeding  at  brief  intervals  the  above  work,  appeared  an 
Account  of  Dickory  Crooke,  the  Life  and  Piracies  of  Captain  Sin- 
gleton, the  Histwy  of  Duncan  Campbell,  the  Fortunes  and  Mis- 
fortunes of  Moll  Flanders,  the  Life  of  Colonel  Jacque,  the  Mem- 
oirs of  a  Cavalier,  and,  superior  to  all  of  these,  the  Account  of 
the  Plague.  Of  the  remaining  numerous  works  of  fiction  which 
our  author  produced,  all  more  or  less  characteristic,  but  none 
of  them  perhaps  quite  equal  to  the  foregoing,  space  fails  us  to 
make  mention. 

De  Foe  died  April  24,  1731,  in  the  place,  of  his  nativity. 

As  the  best  plan  of  communicating  to  the  student  an  idea  of 
De  Foe's  style  and  spirit  as  a  writer  of  fiction,  we  would  present 
one  extract  of  considerable  extent  from  his  master  work — Rob- 
inson Crusoe. 

[Our  hero  discovers  himself  to  us  on  the  morning  after  his  shipwreck.'] 

When  I  waked  it  was  broad  day,  the  weather  clear,  and  the  storm  abated, 
so  that  the'  sea  did  not  rage  and  swell  as  before ;  but  that  which  surprised 
me  most  was,  that  the  ship  was  lifted  off  in  the  night  from  the  sand  where 
she  lay,  by  the  swelling  of  the  tide,  and  was  driven  up  almost  as  far  as  the 
rock  which  1  at  first  mentioned,  where  I  had  been  so  bruised  by  the  wave 
dashing  me  against  it.  This  being  within  a  mile  from  the  shore  where  I 
was,  and  the  ship  seeming  to  stand  upright  still,  I  wished  myself  on  board, 
that  at  least  I  might  save  some  necessary  things  for  my  use. 

A  little  after  noon,  I  found  the  sea  very  calm',  and  the  tide  ebbed  so  far 
out,  that  I  could  come  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  ship.  And  here  I 
found  a  fresh  renewing  of  my  grief;  for  I  saw  evidently,  that  if  we  had 
kept  on  board,  we  had  been  all  safe :  that  is  to  say,  we  had  all  got  safe  on 
shore,  and  I  had  not  been  so  miserable  as  to  be  left  entirely  destitute  of  all 
comfort  and  company,  as  I  now  was.  This  forced  tears  to  my  eyes  again  ; 
but  as  there  was  little  relief  in  that,  I  resolved,  if  possible,  to  get  to  the 
ship ;  so  I  pulled  off  my  clothes,  for  the  weather  was  hot  to  extremity,  and 
took  the  water. 

But  when  1  came  to  the  ship,  my  difficulty  was  still  greater  to  know  how 
to  get  on  board ;  for,  as  she  lay  aground,  and  high  out  of  the  water,  there 
was  nothing  within  my  reach  to  lay  hold  of.  1  swam  round  her  twice,  and 
the  second  time  I  spied  a  small  piece  of  rope,  which  I  wondered  I  did  not 
see  at  first,  hung  down  by  the  forechains  so  low,  that  with  great  difficulty 
I  got  hold  of  it,  and  by  the  help  of  that  rope  I  got  up  into  the  forecastle  of 
the  ship.  Here  I  found  that  the  ship  was  bulged,  and  had  a  great  deal  of 
water  in  her  hold ;  but  that  she  lav  so  on  the  side  of  a  bank  of  hard  sand, 
or  rather  earth,  that  her  stern  lay  lifted  up  upon  the  bank,  and  her  head 
low,  almost  to  the  water.  By  this  means  all  her  quarter  was  free,  and  all 
that  was  in  that  part  was  dry :  for  you  may  be  sure  my  first  work  was  to 
search,  and  to  see  what  was  spoiled  and  what  was  free.  And,  first,  T  found 
that  all  the  ship's  provisions  were  dry  and  untouched  by  the  water,  and 
being  very  well  disposed  to  eat,  I  went  to  the  bread-room,  and  filled  my 
pockets  with  biscuit,  and  ate  it  as  I  went  about  other  things,  for  1  had 


DE  FOE.  437 


no  time  to  lose.  I  also  found  some  rum  in  the  great  cabin,  of  which  1  took 
a  large  dram,  and  which  1  had,  indeed,  need  enough  of  to  spirit  me  for 
what  was  before  me. 

[  The  removal  from  the  wreck  of  a  large  and  varied  stock  of 
supplies  having  been  narrated,  our  hero  next  proceeds  to  acquaint 
us  with  the  location  and  construction  of  his  dwelling.'] 

My  thoughts  were  now  wholly  employed  about  securing  myself  against 
either  savages,  if  any  should  appear,  or  wild  beasts,  if  any  were  in  the 
island  ;  and  I  had  many  thoughts  of  the  method  how  to  do  this,  and  what 
kind  of  dwelling  to  make,—  whether  I  should  make  me  a  cave  in  the  earth, 
or  a  tent  upon  the  earth  ;  and,  in  short,  I  resolved  upon  both,  the  manner 
and  description  of  which  it  may  not  be  improper  to  give  an  account  of. 

I  consulted  several  things  in  my  situation,  which  I  found  would  be  proper 
for  me :  first,  health  and  fresh  water ;  secondly,  shelter  from  the  heat  of  the 
sun ;  thirdly,  security  from  ravenous  creatures,  whether  men  or  beasts ; 
fourthly,  a  view  to  the  sea,  that  if  God  sent  any  ship  in  sight,  I  might  not 
lose  any  advantage  for  my  deliverance,  of  which  I  was  not  willing  to  ban- 
ish all  my  expectation  yet. 

In  search  of  a  place  proper  for  this,  I  found  a  little  plain  on  the  side  of 
a  rising  hill,  whose  front  towards  this  little  plain  was  steep  as  a  house  side, 
so  that  nothing  could  come  down  upon  me  from  the  top.  On  the  side  of 
the  rock  there  was  a  hollow  place,  worn  a  little  way  in,  like  the  entrance 
or  door  of  a  cave ;  but  there  was  not  really  any  cave,  or  way  into  the  rock, 
at  all. 

On  the  flat  of  the  green,.just  before  this  hollow  place,  I  resolved  to  pitch 
my  tent.  This  plain  was  not  above  a  hundred  yards  broadband  about 
twice  as  long,  and  lay  like  a  green  before  my  door;  and,  at  the  end  of  it, 
descended  irregularly  every  way  down  into  the  low  ground  by  the  sea- 
side. It  was  on  the  N.  N.  W.  side  of  the  hill ;  so  that  it  was  sheltered 
from  the  heat  every  day,  till  it  came  to  a  W.  and  by  S.  sun,  or  thereabouts, 
which,  in  those  countries,  is  near  the  setting. 

Before  I  set  up  my  tent  I  drew  a  half  circle  before  the  hollow  place, 
which  took  in  about  ten  yards  in  its  semi-diameter,  from  the  rock,  and 
twenty  yards  in  its  diameter,  from  its  beginning  and  ending.  In  this  half- 
circle  I  pitched  two  rows  of  strong  stakes,  driving  them  into  the  ground 
till  they  stood  very  firm  like  piles,  the  biggest  end  being  out  of  the  ground 
above  fi.ve  feet  and  a  half,  and  sharpened  on  the  top.  The  two  rows  did 
not  stand  above  six  inches  from  one  another. 

Then  I  took  the  pieces  of  cable  which  I  had  cut  in  the  ship,  and  laid 
them  in  rows,  one  upon  another,  within  the  circle,  between  these  rows  of 
stakes,  up  to  the  top,  placing  other  stakes  in  the  inside,  leaning  against 
them,  about  two  feet  and  a  half  high,  like  a  spur  to  a  post ;  and  this  fence 
was  so  strong  that  neither  man  nor  beast  could  get  into  it  or  over  it.  This 
cost  me  a  great  deal  of  time  and  labor,  especially  to  cut  the  piles  in  the 
woods,  bring  them  to  the  place,  and  drive  them  into  the  earth. 

The  entrance  into  this  place  I  made  to  be,  not  by  a  door,  but  by  a  short 

ladder  to  go  over  the  top ;  which  ladder,  when  I  was  in,  I  lifted  over  after 

me ;  and  so  I  was  completely  fenced  in  and  fortified,  as  I  thought,  from  all 

the  world,  and  consequently  slept  secure  in  the  night,  which  otherwise  I 

37* 


438  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

could  not  have  done ;  though,  as  it  appeared  afterwards,  there  was  no  need 
of  all  this  caution  from  the  enemies  that  I  apprehended  danger  from. 

Into  this  fence,  or  fortress,  with  infinite  labor,  I  carried  all  my  riches,  all 
my  provisions,  ammunition,  and  stores,  of  which  you  have  the  account 
above ;  and  I  made  a  large  tent,  which,  to  preserve  me  from  the  rains,  that 
in  one  part  of  the  year  are  very  violent  there,  I  made  double,  one  smaller 
tent  within,  and  one  larger  tent  above  it ;  and  covered  the  uppermost  with 
a  large  tarpaulin,  which  I  had  saved  among  the  sails.  And  now  I  lay  no 
more  for  a  while  in  the  bed  which  I  had  brought  on  shore,  but  in  a  ham- 
mock, which  was  indeed  a  very  good  one,  and  belonged  to  the  mate  of  the 
ship. 

Into  this  tent  I  brought  all  my  provisions,  and  everything  that  would 
spoil  by  the  wet ;  and  having  thus  enclosed  all  my  goods,  I  made  up  the 
entrance,  which  till  now  I  had  left  open,  and  so  passed  and  repassed,  as  I 
said,  by  a  short  ladder.  When  I  had  done  this,  1  began  to  work  my  way 
into  the  rock,  and  bringing  all  the  earth  and  stones  that  I  dug  down  out 
through  my  tent,  I  laid  them  up  within  my  fence,  in  the  nature  of  a  ter- 
race, so  that  it  raised  the  ground  within  about  a  foot  and  a  half ;  and  thus 
1  made  me  a  cave,  just  behind  my  tent,  which  served  me  like  a  cellar  to 
my  house. 

It  cost  me  much  labor  and  many  days  before  all  these  things  were  brought 
to  perfection ;  and,  therefore,  I  must  go  back  to  some  other  things  which 
took  up  some  of  my  thoughts.  At  the  same  time  it  happened,  after  1  had 
laid  my  scheme  for  the  setting  up  my  tent,  and  making  the  cave,  that  a 
storm  of  rain  falling  from  a  thick,  dark  cloud,  a  sudden  flash  of  lightning 
happened,  and  after  that,  a  great  clap  of  thunder,  as  is  naturally  the  effect 
of  it.  I  was  not  so  much  surprised  with  the  lightning  as  I  was  with  a 
thought  which  darted  into  my  mind  as  swift  as  the  lightning  itself :  O  my 
powder !  My  very  heart  sank  within  me  when  I  thought  that,  at  one  blast, 
all  my  powder  might  be  destroyed ;  on  which,  not  my  defence  only,  but  the 
providing  me  food,  as  I  thought,  entirely  depended.  I  was  nothing  near 
so  anxious  about  my  own  danger,  though  had  the  powder  took  fire  1  should 
never  have  known  who  had  hurt  me. 

Such  impression  did  this  make  upon  me,  that  after  the  storm  was  over, 
I  laid  aside  all  my  works,  my  building  and  fortifying,  and  applied  myself 
to  make  bags  and'  boxes,  to  separate  the  powder,  and  to  keep  it  a  little  and 
a  little  in  a  parcel,  in  hope  that  whatever  might  come,  it  might  not  all  take 
fire  at  once ;  and  to  keep  it  so  apart,  that  it  should  not  be  possible  to  make 
..one  part  fire  another.  I  finished  this  work  in  about  a  fortnight ;  and  I 
think  my  powder,  which  in  all  was  about  two  hundred  and  forty  pounds 
weight,  was  divided  into  not  less  than  a  hundred  parcels.  As  to  the  barrel 
that  had  been  wet,  I  did  not  apprehend  any  danger  from  that ;  so  I  placed 
it  in  my  new  cave,  which,  in  my  fancy,  I  called  my  kitchen ;  and  the  rest 
I  hid  up  and  down  in  holes  among  the  rocks,  so  that  no  wet  might  come  to 
it,  marking  very  carefully  where  I  laid  it. 

In  the  interval  of  time  while  this  was  doing,  I  went  out  once  at  least 
every  day  with  my  gun,  as  well  to  divert  myself  as  to  see  if  I  could  kill 
anything  fit  for  food ;  and,  as  near  as  I  could,  to  acquaint  myself  with  what 
the  island  produced.  The  first  time  I  went  out,  I  presently  discovered  that 
there  were  goats  in  the  island,  which  was  a  great  satisfaction  to  me ;  but 
then  it  was  attended  with  this  misfortune  to  me,  viz.,  that  they  were  so  shy, 
so  subtle,  and  so  swift  of  foot,  that  it  was  the  difficultest  thing  in  the  world 
to  come  at  them;  but  I  was  not  discouraged  at  this,  not  doubting  but  I 


DE  FOE.  439 


might  now  and  then  shoot  one,  as  it  soon  happened ;  for  after  I  had  found 
their  haunts  a  little,  I  laid  wait  in  this  manner  for  them :  I  observed  if 
they  saw  me  in  the  valleys,  though  they  were  upon  the  rocks,  they  would 
run  away,  as  in  a  terrible  fright ;  but  if  they  were  feeding  in  the  valleys, 
and  I  was  upon  the  rocks,  they  took  no  notice  of  me ;  from  whence  I  con- 
cluded that,  by  the  position  of  their  optics,  their  sight  was  so  directed  down- 
ward, that  they  did  not  really  see  objects  that  were  above  them ;  so  after- 
wards, I  took  this  method, — I  always  climbed  the  rocks  first,  to  get  above 
them,  and  then  had  frequently  a  fair  mark. 

The  first  shot  I  made  among  these  creatures  I  killed  a  she-goat,  which 
had  a  little  kid  by  her,  which  she  gave  suck  to,  which  grieved  me  heartily  ; 
for,  when  the  old  one  fell,  the  kid  stood  stock  still  by  her,  till  I  came  and 
took  her  up ;  and  not  only  so,  but  when  I  carried  the  old  one  with  me, 
upon  my  shoulders,  the  kid  followed  me  quite  to  my  enclosure ;  upon  which 
I  laid  down  the  dam,  and  took  the  kid  in  my  arms,  and  carried  it  over  my 
pale,  in  hopes  to  have  bred  it  up  tame ;  but  it  would  not  eat ;  so  I  was 
forced  to  kill  it,  arid  ate  it  myself.  These  two  supplied  me  with  flesh  a 
great  while,  for  1  ate  sparingly,  and  saved  my  provisions,  my  bread  espe- 
cially, as  much  as  I  possibly  could. 

Having  now  fixed  my  habitation,  I  found  it  absolutely  necessary  to  pro- 
vide a  place  to  make  a  fire  in,  and  fuel  to  burn ;  and  what  I  did  for  that, 
as  also  how  I  enlarged  my  cave,  and  what  conveniences  I  made,  I  shall 
give  a  full  account  of  in  its  place ;  but  I  must  now  give  some  little  account 
of  myself,  and  of  my  thoughts  about  living,  which,  it  may  \vell  be  supposed, 
were  not  a  few. 

I  had  a  dismal  prospect  of  my  condition,  for  as  I  was  not  cast  away  upon 
that  island  without  being  driven,  as  is  said,  by  a  violent  storm,  quite  out  of 
the  course  of  our  intended  voyage,  and  a  great  way,  viz.,  some  hundreds  of 
leagues,  out  of  the  ordinary  course  of  the  trade  of  mankind,  I  had  great 
reason  to  consider  it  as  a  determination  of  Heaven,  that  in  this  desolate 
place,  and  in  this  desolate  manner,  1  should  end  my  life.  The  tears  would 
run  plentifully  down  my  face  when  I  made  these  reflections ;  and  sometimes 
I  would  expostulate  with  myself  why  Providence  should  thus  completely 
ruin  its  creatures,  and  render  them  so  absolutely  miserable ;  so  without 
help,  abandoned,  so  entirely  depressed,  that  it  could  hardly  be  rational  to 
be  thankful  for  such  a  life. 

But  something  always  returned  swift  upon  me  to  check  these  thoughts 
and  to  reprove  me ;  and  particularly,  one  day,  walking  with  my  gun  in  my 
hand,  by  the  sea-side,  I  wras  very  pensive  upon  the  subject  of  my  present 
condition,  when  reason,  as  it  were,  expostulated  with  me  the  other  way, 
thus :  "  Well,  you  are  in  a  desolate  condition,  it  is  true ;  but,  pray  remem- 
ber, where  are  the  rest  of  you  ?  Did  not  you  come  eleven  of  you  into  the 
boat?  Where  are  the  ten?  Why  were  not  they  saved,  and  you  lost? 
Why  were  you  singled  out  ?  Is  it  better  to  be  here  or  there  ?  "  And  then 
I  pointed  to  the  sea.  All  evils  are  to  be  considered  with  the  good  that  is 
in  them,  and  with  what  worse  attends  them. 

•x-  -K-.  *  -x-  -:c-  *  *  *  -x- 

After  I  had  been  there  about  ten  or  twelve  days,  it  came  into  my  thoughts 
that  I  should  lose  my  reckoning  of  time  for  want  of  books,  and  pen  and  ink, 
and  should  even  forget  the  Sabbath  days ;  but  to  prevent  this,  I  cut  with 
my  knife  upon  a  large  post,  in  capital  letters ;  and  making  it  into  a  great 
cross,  I  set  up  on  the  shore  where  I  first  landed,  "  I  came  on  shore  here  on 


440  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

the  30th  of  September,  1659."  Upon  the  sides  of  this  square  post  I 
cut  every  day  a  notch  with  my  knife,  and  every  seventh  notch  was  as  long 
again  as  the  rest,  and  every  first  day  of  the  month  as  long  again  as  that 
long  one ;  and  thus  1  kept  my  calendar,  or  weekly,  monthly,  and  yearly 
reckoning  of  time. 

###*.****# 
Be  pleased  to  take  a  sketch  of  my  figure,  as  follows : — 

I  had  a  great,  high,  shapeless  cap,  made  of  a  goat's  skin,  with  a  flap 
hanging  down  behind,  as  well  to  keep  the  sun  from  me  as  to  shoot  the  rain 
off  from  running  into  my  neck,  nothing  being  so  hurtful  in  these  climates 
as  the  rain  upon  the  flesh  under  the  clothes.  I  had  a  short  jacket  of  goat's 
skin,  the  skirts  coming  down  to  about  the  middle  of  the  thighs,  and  a  pair 
of  open-kneed  breeches  of  the  same ;  the  breeches  were  made  of  the  skin 
of  an  old  he-goat,  whose  hair  hung  down  such  a  length  on  either  side,  that, 
like  pantaloons,  it  reached  to  the  middle  of  my  legs ;  stockings  and  shoes  I 
had  none,  but  had  made  me  a  pair  of  somethings,  I  scarce  know  what  to 
call  them,  like  buskins,  to  flap  over  my  legs,  and  lace  on  either  side  like 
spatterdashes,  but  of  a  most  barbarous  shape,  as  indeed  were  all  the  rest  of 
my  clothes. 

I  had  on  a  broad  belt  of  goat's  skin  dried,  which  I  drew  together  with 
two  thongs  of  the  same  instead  of  buckles,  and  in  a  kind  of  a  frog  on  either 
side  of  this,  instead  of  a  sword  and  dagger,  hung  a  little  saw  and  a  hatchet, 
one  on  one  side,  and  one  on  the  other.  1  had  another  belt  not  so  broad,  and 
fastened  in  the  same  manner,  which  .hung  over  my  shoulder,  and  at  the  end 
of  it,  under  my  left  arm,  hung  two  pouches,  both  made  of  goat's  skin,  too, 
in  one  of  which  hung  my  powder,  in  the  other  my  shot.  At  my  back  I 
carried  my  basket,  and  on  my  shoulder  my  gun,  and  over  my  head  a  great 
clumsy,  ugly,  goat's  skin  umbrella,  but  which,  after  all,  was  the  most  neces- 
sary thing  I  had  about  me  next  to  my  gun. 

As  for  my  face,  the  color  of  it  was  really  not  so  mulatto-like  as  one  might 
expect  from  a  man  not  at  all  careful  of  it,  and  living  within  nine  or  ten 
degrees  of  the  equinox.  My  beard  1  had  once  suffered  to  grow  till  it  was 
about  a  quarter  of  a  yard  long ;  but  as  I  had  both  scissors  and  razors  suf- 
ficient, I  had  cut  it  pretty  short,  except  what  grew  on  my  upper  lip,  which 
I  had  trimmed  into  a  large  pair  of  Mahometan  whiskers,  such  as  I  had  seen 
worn  by  some  Turks  at  Sallee,  for  the  Moors  did  not  wear  such,  though  the 
Turks  did ;  of  these  moustachios,  or  whiskers,  I  will  not  say  they  were  long 
enough  to  hang  my  hat  upon  them,  but  they  were  of  a  length  and  shape 
monstrous  enough,  and  such  as  in  England  would  have  passed  for  frightful. 
•*-*  ##*### 

It  happened  one  day,  about  noon,  going  towards  my  boat  I  was  exceed- 
ingly surprised  with  the  print  of  a  man's  naked  foot  on  the  shore,  which 
was  very  plain  to  be  seen  on  the  sand.  I  stood  like  one  thunderstruck,  or 
as  if  1  had  seen  an  apparition.  I  listened,  1  looked  round  me,  but  I  could 
hear  nothing,  nor  see  anything ;  I  went  up  to  a  rising  ground,  to  look  farther ; 
J  went  up  the  shore,  and  down  the  shore,  but  it  was  all  one :  I  could  see  no 
other  impression  but  that  one.  I  went  to  it  again  to  see  if  there  were  any 
more,  and  to  observe  if  it  might  not  be  my  fancy ;  but  there  was  no  room 
for  that,  for  there  was  exactly  the  print  of  a  foot—  toes,  heel,  and  every  part 
of  a  foot.  How  it  came  thither  I  knew  not,  nor  could  I  in  the  least  imagine  ; 
but  after  innumerable  fluttering  thoughts,  like  a  man  perfectly  confused, 
and  out  of  myself,  I  came  home  to  my  fortification,  not  feeling,  as  we  say, 


DE  FOE.  441 


the  ground  I  went  on,  but  terrified  to  the  last  degree,  looking  behind  me  at 
every  two  or  three  steps,  mistaking  every  bush  and  tree,  and  fancying  every 
stump  at  a  distance  to  be  a  man.  Nor  is  it  possible  to  describe  how  many 
various  shapes  my  affrighted  imagination  represented  things  to  me  in,  how 
many  wild  ideas  were  found  every  moment  in  my  fancy,  and  what  strange, 
unaccountable  whimseys  came  into  my  thoughts  by  the  way. 

When  I  came  to  my  castle  (for  so  I  think  I  called  it  ever  after  this),  I 
fled  into  it  like  one  pursued.  Whether  I  went  over  by  the  ladder,  as  first 
contrived,  or  went  in  at  the  hole  in  the  rock,  which  I  had  called  a  door,  I 
cannot  remember ;  no,  nor  could  I  remember  the  next  morning,  for  never 
frightened  hare  fled  to  cover,  or  fox  to  earth,  with  more  terror  of  mind  than 
I  to  this  retreat. 

I  slept  none  that  night ;  the  farther  I  was  from  the  occasion  of  my  fright, 
the  greater  my  apprehensions  were,  which  is  something  contrary  to  the 
nature  of  such  things,  and  especially  to  the  usual  practice  of  all  creatures  in 
fear ;  bat  I  was  so  embarrassed  with  my  own  frightful  ideas  of  the  thing, 
that  I  formed  nothing  but  dismal  imaginations  to  myself,  even  though  I 
was  now  a  great  way  off.  Sometimes  1  fancied  it  must  be  the  devil,  and 
reason  joined  in  with  me  in  this  supposition,  for  how  should  any  other  thing 
in  human  shape  come  into  the  place?  Where  was  the  vessel  "that  brought 
them?  WThat  mark/ were  thereof  any  other  footstep  ?  And  how  was  it 
possible  a  man  should  come  there.  But  then,  to  think  that  Satan  should 
take  human  shape  rpon  him  in  such  a  place,  v,  here  there  could  be  no  man- 
ner of  occasion  lor  it,  but  to  leave  the  print  of  his  foot  behind  him,  and 
that  even  for  no  purpose,  too,  for  he  could  not  be  sure  I  should  see  it, — this 
was  an  amazement  the  other  way.  I  considered  that  the  devil  might  have 
found  out  abundance  of  other  ways  to  have  terrified  me  than  this  of  the 
single  print  oi  a  foot ;  that  as  I  lived  quite  on  the  other  side  of  the  island, 
he  would  never  have  been  so  simple  as  to  leave  a  mark  in  a  place  where  it 
was  ten  thousand  to  one  whether  I  should  ever  see  it  or  not,  and  in  the 
sand,  too,  which  the  first  surge  of  the  sea,  upon  a  high  wind,  would  have 
defaced  entirely.  All  this  seemed  inconsistent  with  the  thing  itself,  and 
with  all  the  notions  we  usually  entertain  of  the  subtlety  of  the  devil. 

Abundance  of  such  things  as  these  assisted  to  argue  me  out  of  all  appre- 
hensions of  its  being  the  devil ;  and  1  presently  concluded  then,  that  it 
must  be  some  more  dangerous  creature,  viz.,  that  it  must  be  some  of  the 
savages  of  the  mainland  opposite,  who  had  wandered  out  to  sea  in  their 
canoes,  and,  either  driven  by  the  currents  or  by  contrary  winds,  had  made 
the  island,  and  had  been  on  shore,  but  were  gone  away  again  to  sea ;  being 
as  loath,  perhaps,  to  have  s;aid  in  this  desolate  island  as  i  would  have  been 
to  have  had  them. 

"  On  the  whole  it  was  bis  own  robust  sense  of  reality  that  led  De 
Foe  to  his  style.  There  is  none  of  the  sly  humor  of  the  foreign 
picaresque  novel  in  his  representation  of  English  ragamuffin  life; 
there  is  nothing  of  allegory,  poetry,  or  even  of  didactic  purpose; 
all  is  hard,  prosaic,  and  matter-of-fact,  as  in  newspaper  paragraphs, 
or  the  pages  of  the  Newgate  Calendar.  Much  of  his  material,  in- 
deed, may  have  been  furnished  by  his  recollections  of  occurrences, 
or  by  actual  reports  and  registers;  but  it  is  evident  that  no  man 
ever  possessed  a  stronger  imagination  of  that  kind  which,  a  situation 


442  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

being  once  conceived,  teems  with  circumstances  in  exact  keeping 
with  it. 

"  It  is  a  happy  accident  that  the  subject  of  one  of  his  fictions,  and 
that  the  earliest  on  a  great  scale,  was  of  a  kind  in  treating  which 
his  genius  in  matter-of-fact  necessarily  produced  the  effect  of  a 
poem.  The  conception  of  a  solitary  mariner  thrown  011  an  unin- 
habited island,  was  one  as  really  belonging  to  the  fact  of  that  time 
as  those  which  formed  the  subject  of  De  Foe's  less-read  fictions  of 
coarse  English  life.  Dampier  and  the  Buccaneers  were  roving  the 
South  Seas;  and  there  yet  remained  parts  of  the  land-surface  of 
the  earth  of  which  man  had  not  taken  possession,  and  on  which 
sailors  were  occasionally  thrown  adrift  by  the  brutality  of  captains. 
Seizing  this  text,  more  especially  as  offered  in  the  story  of  Alex- 
ander Selkirk,  De  Foe's  matchless  power  of  inventing  circumstan- 
tial incidents  made  him  more  a  master  even  of  its  poetic  capabilities 
than  the  rarest  poet  then  living  could  have  been ;  and  now  that, 
all  round  our  globe,  there  is  not  an  unknown  island  left,  we  still 
reserve  in  our  mental  charts  one  such  island,  with  the  sea  breaking 
round  it,  and  we  would  part  any  day  with  ten  of  the  heroes  of 
antiquity,  rather  than  with  Robinson  Crusoe  and  his  man 
Friday."  * 

*  British  Novelists  and  their  Styles,  by  David  Masson,  M.  A. 


EDWARD    GIBBON. 

EDWARD  GIBBON  was. born  at  Putney,  in  the  county  of  Surrey, 
April  27,  1737.  He  says  of  himself :  "  So  feeble  was  my  con- 
stitution, so  precarious  my  life,  that,  in  the  baptism  of  each  of 
my  brothers,  my  father's  prudence  successively  repeated  my 
Christian  name  of  Edward,  that,  in  case  of  the  departure  of  the 
eldest  son,  this  patronymic  appellation  might  be  still  perpetuated 
in  the  family."  This  delicacy  very  much  retarded  his  education 
by  procuring  an  excessive  degree  of  leniency  towards  him  from 
his  instructors  ;  and,  in  disqualifying  him  for  the  sports  and  the 
society  of  youthful  associates,  it  facilitated  his  falling  into  a  love 
for  desultory  and  simply  entertaining  reading. 

At  fifteen,  Gibbon  was  matriculated  as  a  gentleman  commoner 
of  Magdalen  College,  Oxford  ;  and  was  there  provided  with  a 
liberal  allowance,  commodious  and  elegant  apartments,  and  free 
access  to  a  large  and  valuable  library.  So  lax,  however,  was 
the  discipline  of  the  college  at  that  time,  that  afterwards,  in 
penning  his  memoirs,  our  author  pronounced  the  fourteen 
months  spent  there  as  "  the  most  idle  and  unprofitable  "  of  his 
whole  life. 

His  departure  from  college  was  precipitated  by  his  avowed 
conversion,  through  the  influence  of  the  writings  of  Bishop 
Bossuet,  to  Catholicism.  With  a  view  to  reclaiming  him  from 
this  belief,  his  father  forthwith  sent  him  to  Lausanne,  Switzer- 
land, and  there  placed  him  in  charge  of  a  Mr.  Pavilliard,  a 
Calvinist  minister.  The  plan  proved  wholly  successful ;  for  in 
less  than  two  years  Gibbon  renounced  his  late  profession  and 
re-embraced  the  Protestant  faith.  Here,  too,  he  confesses  to  have 
begun  and  prosecuted  with  extraordinary  diligence  and  success 
such  useful  studies  as  proved  the  foundation  of  all  his  future 
improvements ;  and  the  friendships  and  the  distinguished  ac- 
quaintances which  he  here  contracted,  and  the  attachment  which 

443 


444  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


he  conceived  for  the  place,  became  weighty  and  salutary  influ- 
ences in  his  after  life. 

Upon  his  return  (in  1758)  to  England,  he  resided  at  his  fath- 
er's comfortable  mansion  at  Buriton,  in  easy  reach  of  London, 
where,  with  the  exception  of  two  and  a  half  years  spent  in  mil- 
itary service,  he  devoted  the  next  four  years  to  study  and  liter- 
ary preparation.  It  was  during  this  interval  (in  1761)  that  he 
reluctantly  gave  his  first  work  to  the  press.  It  was  an  essay 
written  in  French,  and  entitled  Essai  sur  r  Etude  de  la  Littera- 
ture.  About  tins  time,  too,  a  vague  conviction,  which  had  clung 
to  him  from  his  early  youth,  that  he  was  one  day  to  be  a  histo- 
rian, began  to  assert  a  definite  influence;  for  he  successively 
projected  the  Expedition  of  Charles  VIII.  of  France  into  Italy, 
a  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  a  History  of  the  Liberty  of  the 
Swiss,  and  several  other  historical  schemes.  Only  one  of  these 
he  seriously  set  about  developing  ;  but  this,  after  several  years 
consumed  in  preparation,  he_ relinquished. 

The  time  between  1763  and  1765  was  spent  in  a  second  visit 
to  Switzerland,  and  in  an  extensive  tour  of  France  and  Italy. 
It  was  during  this  trip,  and  while  engaged  in  investigating  the 
architectural  and  historical  remains  of  Rome,  that  the  idea  of 
writing  a  history  of  its  former  greatness  and  subsequent  decline 
occurred  to  him.  Upon  the  death  of  his  father,  in  1770,  Gibbon 
settled  in  London,  and  began  the  composition  of  the  History 
that  has  given  him  so  wide  and  so  just  a  celebrity.  The  difficul- 
ties of  the  work  itself,  and  the  interruptions  occasioned  by  a 
service  of  considerable  length  in  Parliament,  delayed  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  first  volume  until  1776.  It  was  received  with 
very  general  and  hearty  applause.  The  remaining  volumes 
appeared  at  various  intervals ;  the  entire  work,  extending  over 
a  period  of  some  thirteen  centuries,  being  completed  in  1787,  at 
which  time  Gibbon  was  again  residing  at  Lausanne. 

Most  of  our  author's  remaining  years  were  studiously  and  hap- 
pily passed  in  his  favorite  Swiss  home.  He  died,  while  on  a  visit 
to  his  native  country,  in  London,  on  the  16th  of  January,  1794. 

From  Volume  IV.  of  the  History  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of 
the  Roman  Empire,  we  excerpt  the  following,  descriptive  of 
Belisarius'  Defense  of  Rome  against  Vitiges,  the  Gothic 


GIBBON.  445 


KING  OF  ITALY. 

As  soon  as  Belisarius  had  fortified  his  new  conquests,  Naples  and  Cumae, 
he  advanced  about  twenty  miles  to  the  banks  of  the  Vulturus,  contemplated 
the  decayed  grandeur  of  Capua,  and  halted  at  the  separation  of  the  Latin 
and  Appiari  ways.  The  work  of  the  censor,  after  the  incessant  use  of  nine 
centuries,  still  preserved  its  primeval  beauty,  and  not  a  flaw  could  be  dis- 
covered in  the  large  polished  stones,  of  which  that  solid  though  narrow 
road  was  so  firmly  compacted.  Belisarius,  however,  preferred  the  Latin 
way,  which,  at  a  distance  from  the  sea  and  marshes,  skirted,  in  a  space  of 
one  hundred  and  twenty  miles,  along  the  foot  of  the  mountains.  His  ene- 
mies had  disappeared :  when  he  made  his  entrance  through  the  Asinarian 
gate,  the  garrison  departed  without  molestation  along  the  Flaminian  way ; 
and  the  city,  after  sixty  years'  servitude,  was  delivered  from  the  yoke  of 
the  barbarians. 

The  first  days,  which  coincided  with  the  old  Saturnalia,  were  devoted  to 
mutual  congratulation  and  the  public  joy  ;  and  the  Catholics  prepared  to 
celebrate,  without  a  rival,  the  approaching  festival  of  the  nativity  of  Christ. 
In  the  familiar  conversation  of  a  hero,  the  Romans  acquired  some  notion 
of  the  virtues  which  history  ascribed  to  their  ancestors ;  they  were  edified 
by  the  apparent  respect  qf  Belisarius  for  the  successor  of  St.  Peter,  and  his 
rigid  discipline  secured,  in  the  midst  of  wrar,  the  blessings  of  tranquillity  and 
justice.  They  applauded  the  rapid  success  of  his  arms,  which  overran  the 
adjacent  country  as  far  as  Narni,  Perusia,  and  Spoleto :  but  they  trembled, 
the  senate,  the  clergy,  and  the  unwarlike  people,  as  soon  as  they  understood 
that  he  had  resolved,  and  would  speedily  be  reduced,  to  sustain  a  siege 
against  the  powers  of  the  Gothic  monarchy. 

The  designs  of  Vitiges  were  executed,  during  the  winter  season,  with 
diligence  and  effect.  From  their  rustic  habitations,  from  their  distant  gar- 
risons, the  Goths  assembled  at  Ravenna  for  the  defense  of  their  country ; 
and  such  were  their  numbers,  that  after  an  army  had  been  detached  for  the 
relief  of  Dalmatia,  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  fighting  men  marched 
under  the  royal  standard.  According  to  the  degrees  of  rank  or  merit,  the 
Gothic  king  distributed  arms  and  horses,  rich  gifts,  and  liberal  promises ; 
he  moved  along  the  Flaminian  way,  declined  the  useless  sieges  of  Perusia 
ind  Spoleto,  respected  the  impregnable  rock  of  Narni,  and  arrived  within 
wo  miles  of  Rome,  at  the  foot  of  the  Milvian  bridge.  The  narrow  passage 
yas  fortified  with  a  tower,  and  Belisarius  had  computed  the  value  of  the 
twenty  days,  which  must  be  lost  in  the  construction  of  another  bridge. 
But  the  consternation  of  the  soldiers  of  the  tower,  who  either  fled  or 
deserted,  disappointed  his  hopes,  and  betrayed  his  person  into  the  most 
imminent  danger. 

At  the  head  of  one  thousand  horse,  the  Roman  general  sallied  from  th» 
Flaminian  gate  to  mark  the  ground  of  an  advantageous  position,  and  to 
survey  the  camp  of  the  barbarians ;  but  wThile  he  still  believed  them  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Tiber,  he  was  suddenly  encompassed  and  assaulted  by 
their  innumerable  squadrons.  The  fate  of  Italy  depended  on  his  life,  and 
the  deserters  pointed  to  the  conspicuous  horse,  a  bay,  with  a  white  face, 
which  he  rode  on  that  memorable  day.  Aim  at  the  bay  horse,  was  the  uni- 
versal cry.  Every  bow  was  bent,  every  javelin  was  directed,  against  that 
fatal  object,  and  the  command  was  repeated  and  obeyed  by  thousands  who 
were  ignorant  of  its  real  motive.  The  bolder  barbarians  advanced  to  the 
more  honorable  combat  of  swords  and  spears ;  and  the  praise  of  an  enemy 
has  graced  the  fall  of  Visandus,  the  standard-bearer,  who  maintained  his 


446  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

foremost  station  till  he  was  pierced  with  thirteen  wounds,  perhaps  by  the 
hand  of  Belisarius  himself. 

The  Roman  general  was  strong,  active,  and  dexterous:  on  every  side  he 
discharged  his  weighty  and  mortal  strokes :  his  faithful  guards  imitated 
his  valor,  and  defended  his  person:  and  the  Goths,  after  the  loss  of  a 
thousand  men,  fled  before  the  arms  of  a  hero.  They  were  rashly  pursued 
to  their  camp;  and  the  Romans,  oppressed  by  multitudes,  made  a  gradual, 
and  at  length  a  precipitate,  retreat  to  the  gates  of  the  city ;  the  gates  were 
shut  against  the  fugitives;  and  the  public  terror  was  increased  by  the 
report  that  Belisarius  was  slain.  His  countenance  was  indeed  disfigured  by 
sweat,  dust,  and  blood;  his  voice  was  hoarse,  his  strength  was  almost 
exhausted,  but  his  unconquerable  spirit  still  remained ;  he  imparted  that 
spirit  to  his  desponding  companions ;  and  their  last  desperate  charge  was 
felt  by  the  flying  barbarians,  as  if  a  new  army,  vigorous  and  entire,  had 
been  poured  from  the  city.  The  Flaminian  Gate  was  thrown  open  to  a  real 
triumph  ;  but  it  was  not  before  Belisarius  had  visited  every  post,  and  pro- 
vided for  the  public  safety,  that  he  could  be  persuaded  by  his  wife  and 
friends  to  take  the  needful  refreshments  of  food  and  sleep.  In  the  more 
improved  state  of  the  art  of  war,  a  general  is  seldom  required,  or  even  per- 
mitted, to  display  the  personal  prowess  of  a  soldier ;  and  the  example  of 
Belisarius  may  be  added  to  the  rare  examples  of  Henry  IV.,  of  Pyrrhus, 
and  of  Alexander. 

After  this  first  and  unsuccessful  trial  of  their  enemies,  the  whole  army  of 
the  Goths  passed  the  Tiber,  and  formed  the  siege  of  the  city,  which  con- 
tinued above  a  year,  till  their  final  departure. 

*  *  -x-  *  •?«-  *  *  *  * 

Eighteen  days  were  employed  by  the  besiegers  to  provide  all  the  instru- 
ments of  attack  which  antiquity  had  invented.  Fascines  were  prepared  to 
fill  the  ditches,  scaling-ladders  to  ascend  the  walls.  The  largest  trees  of 
the  forest  supplied  the  timbers  of  four  battering-rams ;  their  heads  were 
armed  with  iron ;  they  were  suspended  by  ropes,  and  each  of  them  was 
worked  by  the  labor  of  fifty  men.  The  lofty  wooden  turrets  moved  on 
wheels  or  rollers,  and  formed  a  spacious  platform  of  the  level  of  the  ram- 
part. On  the  morning  of  the  nineteenth  day,  a  general  attack  was  made 
from  the  Praenestine  gate  to  the  Vatican  :  seven  Gothic  columns,  with  their 
military  engines,  advanced  to  the  assault;  and  the  Romans,  who  lined  the 
ramparts,  listened  with  doubt  and  anxiety  to  the  cheerful  assurances  of 
tlieir  commander. 

As  soon  as  the  enemy  approached  the  ditch,  Pelisarius  himself  drew  the 
first  arrow  ;  and  such  was  his  strength  and  dexterity,  that  he  transfixed  the 
foremost  of  the  barbarian  leaders.  A  shout  of  applause  and  victory  was 
re-echoed  along  the  wall.  He  drew  a  second  arrow,  and  the  stroke  was 
followed  with  the  same  success  and  the  same  acclamation.  The  Roman 
general  then  gave  the  word,  that  the  archers  should  aim  at  the  teams  of 
oxen;  they  were  instantly  covered  with  mortal  wounds;  the  towers  which 
they  drew  remained  useless  and  immovable,  and  a  single  moment  discon- 
certed the  laborious  projects  of  the  king  of  the  Goths. 

After  this  disappointment,  Vitiges  still  continued,  or  feigned  to  continue, 
the  assault  of  the  Salarian  gate,  that  he  might  divert  the  attention  of  his 
adversary,  while  his  principal  forces  more  strenuously  attacked  the  Prae- 
nestine gate  and  the  sepulchre  of  Hadrian,  at  the  distance  of  three  miles 
from  each  other.  Near  the  former,  the  double  walls  of  the  Vivarium  were 
low  or  broken ;  the  fortifications  of  the  latter  were  feebly  guarded :  the 


GIBBON.  447 


vigor  of  the  Goths  was  excited  by  the  hope  of  victory  and  spoil ;  and  if  a 
single  post  had  given  way,  the  Romans,  and  Rome  itself,  were  irrecoverably 
lost. 

This  perilous  day  was  the  most  glorious  in  the  life  of  Belisarius.  Amidst 
tumult  and  dismay,  the  whole  plan  of  the  attack  and  defense  was  dis- 
tinctly present  to  his  mind ;  he  observed  the  changes  of  each  instant, 
weighed  every  possible  advantage,  transported  his  person  to  the  scenes  of 
danger,  and  communicated  his  spirit  in  calm  and  decisive  orders.  The  con- 
test was  fiercely  maintained  from  the  morning  to  the  evening ;  the  Goths 
were  repulsed  on  all  sides,  and  each  Roman  might  boast  that  he  had  van- 
quished thirty  barbarians,  if  the  strange  disproportion  of  numbers  were  not 
counterbalanced  by  the  merit  of  one  man.  Thirty  thousand  Goths,  accord- 
ing to  the  confession  of  their  own  chiefs,  perished  in  this  bloody  action, 
and  the  multitude  of  the  wounded  was  equal  to  that  of  the  slain.  When 
thev  advanced  to  the  assault,  their  close  disorder  suffered  not  a  javelin  to 
fall  without  effect ;  and  as  they  retired,  the  populace  of  the  city  joined  the 
pursuit,  and  slaughtered,  with  impunity,  the  backs  of  their  flying  enemies. 
Belisarius  instantly  sallied  from  the  gates  ;  and  while  the  soldiers  chanted 
his  name  and  victorv,  tli/e  hostile  engines  of  wur  were  reduced  to  ashes. 
S^ich  was  the  loss  and  consternation  of  the  Goths,  that,  from  this  day,  the 
sie;-e  of  Rome  degenerated  into  a  tedious  and  indolent  blockade;  and  they 
were  incessantly  harassed  by  the  Roman  general,  who,  in  frequent  skir- 
mishes, destroyed  about  five  thousand  of  their  bravest  troops.  Their  cav- 
alry was  unpraotioed  in  the  use  of  the  bow;  their  archers  served  on  foot; 
and  this  divide  1  force  was  incapable  of  contending  with  their  adversaries, 
whose  lances  and  arrows,  at  a  distance  or  at  hand,  were  alike  formidable. 

Our  remaining  extract  is  from  Volume  VI. — the  last — of  the 
History,  and  describes 

THE  PRINCES   AND   THE   PALACE   OP  CONSTANTINOPLE. 

The  Princes  of  Constantinople  were  far  removed  from  the  simplicity  of 
nature ;  yet,  with  the  revolving  seasons,  they  were  led  by  taste  or  fashion, 
to  withdraw  to  a  purer  air,  from  the  smoke  and  tumult  of  the  capital.  They 
enjoyed,  or  affected  to  enjoy,  the  rustic  festival  of  the  vintage ;  their  leisure 
was  amused  by  the  exercise  of  the  chase,  and  the  calmer  occupation  of 
fishing ;  and  in  the  summer  lieats,  they  were  shaded  from  the  sun,  and  re- 
freshed by  the  cooling  breezes  from  the  sea.  The  coasts  and  islands  of  Asia 
and  Europe  were  covered  with  their  magnificent  villas ;  but,  instead  of  the 
modest  art  which  secretly  strives  to  hide  itself,  and  to  decorate  the  scenery 
of  nature,  the  marble  structure  of  their  gardens  served  only  to  expose  the 
riches  of  the'r  lord,  and  the  labors  of  the  architect. 

The  successive  casualties  of  inheritance  and  forfeiture  had  rendered  the 
sovereign  proprietor  of  many  stately  houses  in  the  city  and  suburbs,  of 
which  twelve  were  appropriated  to  "the  ministers  of  state;  but  the  great 
palace,  the  centre  of  the  imperial  residence,  was  fixed  during  eleven  cen- 
turies to  the  same  position,  between  the  hippodrome,  the  cathedral  of  St. 
Sophia,  and  the  gardens  which  descended  by  manv  a  terrace  to  the  shores 
of  the  Propontis.  The  primitive  edifice  of  the  first  Constantine  was  a  copy 
or  rival  of  ancient  Rome;  the  gradual  improvements  of  his  successors 
aspired  to  emulate  the  wonders  of  the  old  world,  and,  in  the  tenth  century, 
the  Byzantine  palace  excited  the  admiration,  at  least  of  the  Latins,  by  an 


418  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

unquestionable  pre-eminence  of  strength,  size,  and  magnificence.  But  the 
toil  and  treasure  of  so  many  ages  had  produced  a  vast  and  irregular  pile ; 
each  separate  building  was  marked  with  the  character  of  the  times,  and 
of  the  founder ;  and  the  want  of  space  might  excuse  the  reigning  monarch 
Avho  demolished,  perhaps  with  secret  satisfaction,  the  works  of  his  prede- 
cessors. 

The  economy  of  the  emperor  Theophilus  allowed  a  more  free  and  ample 
scope  for  his  domestic  luxury  and  splendor.  A  favorite  ambassador,  who 
Lad  astonished  the  Abbassides  themselves  by  his  pride  and  liberality,  pre- 
sented on  his  return  the  model  of  a  palace  which  the  caliph  of  Bagdad  had 
recently  constructed  on  the  banks  of  the  Tigris.  The  model  was  instantly 
copied  and  surpassed  ;  the  new  buildings  of  Theophilus  were  accompanied 
with  gardens  and  with  tine  churches,  one  of  which  was  conspicuous  for  size 
and  beauty  ;  it  was  crowned  with  three  domes,  the  roof  of  gilt  brass  reposed 
on  columns  of  Italian  marble,  and  the  walls  were  incrusted  with  marbles 
of  various  colors.  In  the  face  of  the  church,  a  semicircular  portico,  of  the 
figure  and  name  of  the  Greek  sigma,  was  supported  by  fifteen  columns  of 
Phrygian  marble,  and  the  subterraneous  vaults  were  of  a  similar  con- 
struction. 

The  square  before  the  sigma  was  decorated  with  a  fountain,  and  the 
margin  of  the  basin  was  lined  and  encompassed  with  plates  of  silver.  In 
the  beginning  of  each  season,  the  basin,  instead  of  water,  was  replenished 
with  the  most  exquisite  fruits,  which  were  abandoned  to  the  populace  for 
the  entertainment  of  the  prince.  He  enjoyed  this  tumultuous  spectacle 
from  a  throne  resplendent  with  gold  and  gems,  which  was  raised  by  a  mar- 
ble staircase  to  the  height  of  a  lofty  terrace.  Below  the  throne  were  seated 
the  officers  of  his  guards,  the  magistrates,  the  chiefs  of  the  factions  of  the 
circus ;  the  inferior  steps  were  occupied  by  the  people,  and  the  place  below 
was  covered  with  troops  of  dancers,  singers,  and  pantomimes. 

The  square  was  surrounded  by  the  hall  of  justice,  the  arsenal,  and  the 
various  offices  of  business  and  pleasure  ;  and  the  purple  chamber  was  named 
from  the  annual  distribution  of  robes  of  scarlet  and  purple  by  the  hand  of 
the  empress  herself.  The  long  series  of  the  apartments  were  adapted  to 
the  seasons,  and  decorated  with  marble  and  porphyry,  with  painting, 
sculpture,  and  mosaics,  with  a  profusion  of  gold,  silver,  and  precious  stones. 
His  fanciful  magnificence  employed  the  skill  and  patience  of  such  artists  as 
the  times  could  afford  ;  but  the  taste  of  Athens  would  have  despised  their 
frivolous  and  costly  labors ;  a  golden  tree  with  its  leaves  and  branches, 
which  sheltered  a  multitude  of  birds,  warbling  their  artificial  notes,  and 
two  lions  of  massy  gold,  and  of  the  natural  size,  who  looked  and  roared 
like  their  brethren  of  the  torest. 

The  successors  of  Theophilus,  of  the  Basilian  and  Comnenian  dynasties, 
were  not  less  ambitious  of  leaving  some  memorial  of  their  residence,  and 
the  portion  of  the  palace  most  splendid  and  august,  was  dignified  with  the 
title  of  the  golden  triclinium.  "With  becoming  modesty,  the  rich  and  noble 
Greeks  aspired  to  imitate  their  sovereign ;  and  when  they  passed  through 
the  streets  on  horseback,  in  their  robes  of  silk  and  embroidery,  they  were 
mistaken  by  the  children  for  kings. 

"  In  the  power  of  generalization  and  of  bringing  into  one  view  a 
whole  era  of  remarkable  events,  no  writer  ever  equaled  Gibbon. 
His  mind  ranged  over  his  wide  and  infinite  subject,  selecting, 


GIBBON.  449 


instinctively,  the  best  points  of  view,  and  placing  the  reader  where 
he  could  catch  at  a  glance  a  whole  splendid  panorama.  Gibbon 
compressed  into  six  volumes  a  period  of  twelve  or  fourteen  hun- 
dred years;  but  the  period  embraced  is  even  less  wonderful  than 
the  vast  variety  of  its  events.  The  Romans,  Goths,  Huns  and 
Vandals,  Turks,  Moslems  and  Gauls,  are  but  a  few  of  that  innumer- 
able company  of  races  of  whom  his  narrative  treats.  He  paints 
the  swarthy  Arab  and  the  fair-faced  Saxon,  the  forests  of  Germany, 
the  steppes  of  Siberia,  and  the  conquests  of  Ghengis  Khan.  Yet 
out  of  all  these  distant  and  inharmonious  elements,  he  produces  a 
narrative  so  well  ordered  and  methodical  that  no  want  of  clearness 
or  confusion  of  subjects  is  anywhere  apparent. 

"  Although  no  trace  is  left  of  his  having  written  any  verses,  yet 
there  is  much  of  the  poetic  in  the  character  of  his  intellect.  His 
History  is  not  like  that  of  Hume,  a  philosophical  essay;  nor  like 
those  of  Robertson,  a  series  of  biography ;  but  resembles  rather  a 
splendid  epic,  filled  with  (he  excitement  of  tragic  action,  and  hav- 
ing for  its  hero  the  genius  of  falling  Rome.  As  he  was  a  poet  he 
fails  as  a  philosopher.  With  much  pretence  to  philosophical 
power,  there  is  yet  little  of  real  philosophical  deduction  in  all  his 
volumes.  He  teaches  nothing  and  discovers  nothing.  Except  in 
his  inconclusive  attack  on  the  church,  his  work  has  no  moral  or 
philosophical  purpose.  It  abounds  in  maxims  and  contrasts, 
antithesis  and  point.  But  no  large  views  of  intellectual  or  moral 
progress  are  to  be  derived  from  Gibbon's  work.  As  a  politician  he 
contents  himself  with  vague  declamations  in  behalf  of  freedom,  and 
in  an  opposing  laudation  of  imperial  despotism.  He  even  forms 
no  theory  of  the  causes  of  the  fall  of  Rome :  he  discovers  no  one 
principle  capable  of  completing  that  great  destruction.  Gibbon 
simply  presents  facts ;  he  leaves  the  reader  to  philosophize  at  will. 

"  As  a  painter  of  character,  Gibbon  caught  rather  the  act  than 
the  motive.  A  cold  sarcasm  runs  through  all  his  History:  he 
sneers  at  religion,  mocks  at  all  sincerity,  and  doubts  the  truth  and 
honesty  of  all  men.  His  History  shows  little  trace  of  any  inquiry 
into  the  value  or  accuracy  of  his  materials,  except  that  he  in  gen- 
eral prefers  a  pagan  authority  to  a  Christian ;  praises  Procopius 
and  decries  Eusebius.  He  had  nothing,  however,  of  the  active 
spirit  of  research  which  distinguises  a  Niebuhr  or  an  Arnold.  His 
style,  if  style  be  merely  language,  was  obscure ;  if  it  be  the  arrange- 
ment and  expression  of  thought,  it  was  wonderfully  perspicuous."  * 

*  The  Lives  of  tlie  British  Historians :  Eugene  Lawrence. 
38*  2D 


DAVID    HUME. 


DAVID  HUME  was  born  April  26,  1711,  at  Edinburgh,  of 
gentle,  but  not  of  wealthy  parents.  To  use  his  own  words : 
"  I  passed  through  the  ordinary  course  of  education  [he  gradu- 
ated at  the  University  of  his  native  city]  with  success,  and  was 
seized  very  early  with  a  passion  for  literature,  which  has  been 
the  ruling  passion  of  my  life,  and  the  greatest  source  of  my 
enjoyments.  My  studious  disposition,  my  sobriety,  and  my 
industry  gave  my  family  a  notion  that  the  law  was  a  proper  pro- 
fession for  me  ;  but  I  found  an  insurmountable  aversion  to  every- 
thing but  the  pursuits  of  philosophy  and  general  learning;  and 
while  they  fancied  I  was  poring  upon  Voet  and  Vinnius,  Cicero 
and  Virgil  were  the  authors  which  I  was  secretly  devouring." 

Mercantile  life  was  next  tried  at  Bristol ;  but  was  soon  found 
to  be  "  totally  unsuitable."  In  1738,  Hume  made  a  first  attempt 
at  gratifying  his  passion  for  authorship  by  publishing  a  Treatise 
of  Human  Nature.  "Never  literary  attempt,"  says  he,  "  was 
more  unfortunate  than  my  Treatise  of  Human  Nature.  It  fell 
dead-born  from  the  press,  without  reaching  such  distinction  as 
even  to  excite  a  murmur  among  the  zealots.  But  being  natu- 
rally of  a  cheerful  and  sanguine  temper,  I  very  soon  recovered 
the  blow,  and  prosecuted  with  great  vigor  my  studies  in  the 
country.  In  ]  742,  I  printed  at  Edinburgh  the  first  part  of  my 
Essays.  The  work  was  favorably  received,  and  soon  made  me 
entirely  forget  my  former  disappointment. 

"  In  1752  were  published  at  Edinburgh,  where  I  then  lived,  my 
Political  Discourses,  the  only  work  of  mine  that  was  successful  on 
the  first  publication.  It  was  well  received  at  home  and  abroad. 
In  the  same  year  was  published  at  London  my  Inquiry  Concerning 
the  Principles  of  Morals  ;  which,  in  my  own  opinion,  who  ought  not 
to  judge  on  that  subject,  is,  of  all  my  writings,  historical,  philo- 
sophical, or  literary,  incomparably  the  best.  It  came  unnoticed 
and  unobserved  into  the  world." 

450 


HUME.  451 


In  the  same  year,  while  serving  as  librarian  to  the  Faculty  of 
Advocates,  in  which  office  he  had  access  to  a  large  library,  Hume 
conceived  the  plan  and  commenced  the  work  of  writing  his  History 
of  England.  The  first  volume,  which  opened  with  the  accession  of 
the  house  of  Stuart,  was  published  in  1754.  Our  author  says  of  its 
reception  :  "  I  was  assailed  by  one  cry  of  reproach,  disapprobation, 
and  even  detestation ;  English,  Scotch,  and  Irish,  whig  and  tory, 
churchman  and  sectary",  freethinker  and  religionist,  patriot  and 
courtier,  united  in  their  rage  against  the  man  who  had  presumed 
to  shed  a  generous  tear  for  the  fate  of  Charles  I.  and  the  earl  of 
Strafford  ;  and  after  the  first  ebullitions  of  their  fury  were  over,  what 
was  still  more  mortifying,  the  book  seemed  to  sink  into  oblivion. 

"  I  was,  I  confess,  discouraged ;  and  had  not  the  war  been  at  that 
time  breaking  o'ut  between  France  and  England,  I  had  certainly 
retired  to  some  provincial /"town  of  the  former  kingdom,  have 
changed  my  name,  and  never  more  have  returned  to  my  native 
country.  But  as  this  scheme  was  not  now  practicable,  and  the  sub- 
sequent volume  was  considerably  advanced,  I  resolved  to  pick  up 
courage  and  to  persevere." 

The  remaining  volumes  of  this  work,  completing  the  history  of 
England  from  the  invasion  of  Julius  Caesar  to  the  abdication  of 
James  II.,  appeared  at  intervals  from  1756  until  1761,  and  were 
received  with  a  less  degree  of  disfavor  than  was  the  first.  "Not- 
withstanding," says  our  author  again,  "the  variety  of  winds  and 
seasons  to  which  my  writings  had  been  exposed,  they  had  still  been 
making  such  advances,  that  the  copy-money  given  me  by  the  book- 
sellers much  exceeded  anything  formerly  known  in  England;  I 
was  become  not  only  independent,  but  opulent." 

With  the  completion  of  his  History  came  the  end  of  Hume's 
literary  life.  He  served  in  1765  as  secretary  to  Lord  Hertford's 
embassy  to  Paris;  where,  recommended  doubtless  by  his  peculiar 
philosophical  views,  he  became  the  subject  of  many  attentions  and 
flatteries  from  men  and  women  of  the  highest  ranks  of  the  society 
of  the  French  capital.  Again,  for  two  years  (1767-69),  he  filled  the 
honorable  office  of  Under-Secretary  of  State.  He  then  returned  to 
Edinburgh,  where  he  studiously  passed  the  remainder  of  his  life, 
dying  August  25,  1776,  "in  such  a  happy  composure  of  mind,  that 
nothing  could  exceed  it." 

The  following  extracts  are  from  The  History  of  England,  the  first 
being  from  Volume  II. : 

BATTLE   OF   POICTIERS. 

The  prince  of  Wales,  encouraged  by  the  success  of  the  preceding  cam- 
paign, took  the  field  with  an  army,  which  no  historian  makes  amount  to 


452  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

above  twelve  thousand  men,  and  of  which  not  a  third  were  English  ;  and 
with  this  small  body,  he  ventured  to  penetrate  into  the  heart  of  1'rance. 
After  ravaging  the  Argenois,  Quercy,  and  the  Limousin,  he  entered  the 
province  of  Berry  ;  and  made  some  attacks,  though  without  success,  on  the 
towns  of  Bourges  and  Issoudum.  It  appeared  that  his  intentions  were  to 
march  into  Normandy,  and  to  join  his  forces  with  those  of  the  earl  of 
Lancaster,  and  the  partisans  of  the  king  of  Navarre  ;  but  finding  all  the 
bridges  on  the  Loire  broken  down,  and  every  pass  carefully  guarded,  he 
was  obliged  to  think  of  making  his  retreat  into.  Guienne.  lie  found  this 
resolution  the  more  necessary,  from  the  intelligence  which  he  received  of 
the  king  of  France's  motions.  That  monarch,  provoked  at  the  insult 
offered  him  by  this  incursion,  and  entertaining  hopes  of  success  from  the 
young  prince's  temerity,  collected  a  great  army  of  above  sixty  thousand 
men,  and  advanced  by  hasty  marches  to  intercept  his  enemy.  The  prince, 


and  Edward,  sensible  that  his  retreat  was  now  become  impracticable,  pre- 
pared for  battle  with  all  the  courage  of  a  young  hero,  and  with  all  the  pru- 
dence of  the  oldest  and  most  experienced  commander. 

But  the  utmost  prudence  and  courage  would  have  proved  insufficient  to 
save  him  in  this  extremity,  had  the  king  of  France  known  how  to  make 
use  of  his  present  advantages.  His  great  superiority  in  numbers  enabled 
him  to  surround  the  enemy  ;  and  by  intercepting  all  provisions,  which  were 
already  become  scarce  in  the  English  camp,  to  reduce  this  small  army,  with- 
out a  blow,  to  the  necessity  of  surrendering  at  discretion.  But  such  was  the 
impatient  ardor  of  the  French  nobility,  and  so  much  had  their  thoughts 
been  bent  on  overtaking  the  English  as  their  sole  object,  that  this  idea 
never  struck  any  of  the  commanders  ;  and  they  immediately  took  measures 
for  the  assault,  as  for  a  certain  victory. 
•&  *  -K-  -x-  *  #  *  -x- 

The  prince  of  Wales  had  leisure,  during  the  night,  to  strengthen,  by  new 
intrenchments,  the  post  which  he  had  before  so  judiciously  chosen  ;  and  he 
contrived  an  ambush  of  three  hundred  men  at  arms,  and  as  many  archers, 
whom  he  put  under  the  command  of  the  Captal  de  Buche,  and  ordered  to 
make  a  circuit,  that  they  might  fall  on  the  flank  or  rear  of  the  French  army 
during  the  engagement.  The  van  of  his  army  was  commanded  by  the  earl 
of  Warwick,  the  rear  by  the  earls  of  Salisbury  and  Suffolk,  the  main  body 
by  the  prince  himself.  The  lords  Chandos,  Audeley,  and  many  other 
brave  and  experienced  commanders,  were  at  the  head  of  different  corps  of 
his  army. 

John  also  arranged  his  forces  in  three  divisions,  nearly  equal  ;  the  first 
was  commanded  by  the  duke  of  Orleans,  the  king's  brother  ;  the  second  by 
the  dauphin,  attended  by  his  two  younger  brothers  ;  the  third  by  the  king 
himself,  who  had  by  his  side  Philip,  his  fourth  son  and  favorite,  then  about 
fourteen  years  of  age.  There  was  no  reaching  the  English  army  but  through 
a  narrow  lane,  covered  on  each  side  by  hedges  ;  and  in  order  to  open  this 
passage,  the  mareschals,  Andrehen  and  Clermont,  were  ordered  to  advance 
with  a  separate  detachment  of  men  at  arms.  While  they  marched  along 
the  lane,  a  body  of  English  archers,  who  lined  the  hedges,  plied  them  on 
each  side  with  their  arrows  ;  and  being  very  near  them,  yet  placed  in  per- 
fect safety,  they  coolly  took  their  aim  against  the  enemy,  and  slaughtered 
them  with  impunity.  The  French  detachment,  much  discouraged  by  the 


HUME.  453 


unequal  combat,  and  diminished  in  their  number,  arrived  at  the  end  of  the 
lane,  where  they  met  on  the  open  ground  the  prince  of  Wales  himself,  at 
the  head  of  a  chosen  body,  ready  for  their  reception.  They  were  dis- 
comfited and  overthrown :  one  of  the  mareschals  was  slain ;  the  other  taken 
prisoner :  and  the  remainder  of  the  detachment,  who  were  still  in  the  lane, 
and  exposed  to  the  shot  of  the  enemy,  without  being  able  to  make  resist- 
ance, recoiled  upon  their  own  army,  and  put  everything  into  disorder. 

In  that  critical  moment  the  Captal  de  Buche  unexpectedly  appeared,  and 
attacked  in  flank  the  dauphin's  line,  which  fell  into  some  confusion.  Lan- 
das,  Bodenai,  and  St.  Venant,  to  whom  the  care  of  that  young  prince  and 
his  brothers  had  been  committed,  too  anxious  for  their  charge,  or  for  their 
own  safety,  carried  them  off  the  field,  and  set  the  example  of  flight,  which 
was  followed  by  that  whole  division.  The  duke  of  Orleans,  seized  with  a 
like  panic,  and  imagining  all  was  lost,  thought  no  longer  of  fighting,  but 
carried  off  his  division  by  a  retreat,  which  soon  turned  into  a  flight.  Lord 
Chandos  called  out  to  the  prince  that  the  day  was  won ;  and  encouraged 
him  to  attack  the  division  under  king  John,  which,  though  more  numerous 
than  the  whole  English  army,  \fere  somewhat  dismayed  by  the  precipitate 
flight  of  their  companions.  John  here  made  the  utmost  efforts  to  retrieve 
by  his  valor  what  his  imprudence  had  betrayed ;  and  the  only  resistance 
made  that  day  was  by  his  line  of  battle. 

The  prince  of  Wales  fell  with  impetuosity  on  some  German  cavalry 
placed  in  the  front,  and  commanded  by  the  counts  of  Sallebruche,  Nydo, 
and  Nasto :  a  fierce  battle  ensued :  one  side  were  encouraged  by  the  near 
prospect  of  so  great  a  victory ;  the  other  were  stimulated  by  the  shame 
of  quitting  the  field  to  an  enemy  so  much  inferior:  but  the  three  German 
generals,  together  with  the  duke  of  Athens,  constable  of  France,  falling  in 
battle,  that  body  of  cavalry  gave  way,  and  left  the  king  himself  exposed  to 
the  whole  fury  of  the  enemy.  The  ranks  were  every  moment  thinned 
around  him :  the  nobles  fell  by  his  side  one  after  another :  his  son,  scarce 
fourteen  years  of  age,  received  a  wound,  while  he  was  fighting  valiantly  in 
defence  of  his  father:  the  king  himself,  spent  with  fatigue  and  over- 
whelmed by  numbers,  might  easily  have  been  slain ;  but  every  English 
gentleman,  ambitious  of  taking  alive  the  royal  prisoner,  spared  him  in  the 
action,  exhorted  him  to  surrender,  and  offered  him  quarter :  several,  who 
attempted  to  seize  him,  suffered  for  their  temerity.  He  still  cried  out, 
"  Where  is  my  cousin,  the  prince  of  Wales  ? "  and  seemed  unwilling  to 
become  prisoner  to  any  person  of  inferior  rank.  But  being  told  that  the 
prince  was  at  a  distance  on  the  field,  he  threw  down  his  gauntlet,  and 
yielded  himself  to  Dennis  de  Morbec,  a  knight  of  Arras,  who  had  been 
obliged  to  fly  his  country  for  murder.  His  son  was  taken  with  him. 

The  prince  of  Wales,  who  had  been  carried  away  in  pursuit  of  the  flying 
enemy,  finding  the  field  entirely  clear,  had  ordered  a  tent  to  be  pitched, 
and  was  reposing  himself  after  the  toils  of  battle  ;  inquiring  still  with  great 
anxiety  concerning  the  fate  of  the  French  monarch.  He  despatched  the 
earl  of  Warwick  to  bring  him  intelligence ;  and  that  nobleman  came  hap- 
pily in  time  to  save  the  life  of  the  captive  prince,  which  was  exposed  to 
greater  danger  than  it  had  been  during  the  heat  of  the  action.  The  Eng- 
glish  had  taken  him  by  violence  from  Morbec :  the  Gascons  claimed  the 
honor  of  detaining  the  royal  prisoner;  and  some  brutal  soldiers,  rather 
than  yield  the  prize  to  their  rivals,  had  threatened  to  put  him  to  death. 
Warwick  overawed  both  parties,  and,  approaching  the  king  with  great 
demonstrations  of  respect,  offered  to  conduct  him  to  the  prince's  tent. 


454  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Here  commences  the  real  and  truly  admirable  heroism  of  Edward ;  for 
victories  are  vulgar  things  in  comparison  of  that  moderation  and  humanity 
displayed  by  a  young  prince  of  twenty-seven  years  of  age,  not  yet  cooled 
from  the  fury  of  battle,  and  elated  by  as  extraordinary  and  as  unexpected 
success  as  had  ever  crowned  the  arms  of  any  commander.  He  came  forth 
to  meet  the  captive  king  with  all  the  marks  of  regard  and  sympathy  ; 
administered  comfort  to  him  amidst  his  misfortunes ;  paid  him  the  tribute 
of  praise  due  to  his  valor  ;  and  ascribed  his  own  victory  merely  to  the  blind 
chance  of  war,  or  to  a  superior  Providence,  which  controls  all  the  efforts  of 
human  force  and  prudence.  The  behavior  of  John  showed  him  not 
unworthy  of  this  courteous  treatment;  his  present  abject  fortune  never 
made  him  forget  a  moment  that  he  was  a  king :  more  touched  by  Edward's 
generosity  than  by  his  own  calamities,  he  confessed  that,  notwithstanding 
his  defeat  and  captivity,  his  honor  was  still  unimpaired ;  and  that  if  he 
yielded  the  victory,  it  was  at  least  gained  by  a  prince  of  such  consummate 
valor  and  humanity. 

Edward  ordered  a  repast  to  be  prepared  in  his  tent  for  the  prisoner ;  and 
he  himself  served  at  the  royal  captive's  table,  as  if  he  had  been  one  of  his 
retinue :  he  stood  at  the  king's  back  during  the  meal ;  constantly  refused 
to  take  a  place  at  table ;  and  declared  that,  being  a  subject,  he  was  too  well 
acquainted  with  the  distance  between  his  own  rank  and  that  of  royal 
majesty,  to  assume  such  freedom.  All  his  father's  pretensions  to  the  crown 
of  France  were  now  buried  in  oblivion:  John  in  captivity  received  the 
honors  of  a  king,  which  were  refused  him  when  seated  on  the  throne :  his 
misfortunes,  not  his  title,  were  respected,  and  the  French  prisoners,  con- 
quered by  this  elevation  of  mind,  more  than  by  their  late  discomfiture, 
burst  into  tears  of  admiration,  which  were  only  checked  by  the  reflection/ 
that  such  genuine  and  unaltered  heroism  in  an  enemy  must  certainly  in  the 
issue  prove  but  the  more  dangerous  to  their  native  country. 

•*####•*•£#•£ 

The  prince  of  Wales  conducted  his  prisoner  to  Bordeaux ;  and  not  being 
provided  with  forces  so  numerous  as  might  enable  him  to  push  his  present 
advantages,  he  concluded  a  two  years'  truce  with  France,  which  was  also 
become  requisite,  that  he  might  conduct  the  captive  king  with  safety  into 
England.  He  landed  at  Southwark,  and  was  met  by  a  great  concourse  of 
people,  of  all  ranks  and  stations.  The  prisoner  was  clad  in  royal  apparel, 
and  mounted  on  a  white  steed,  distinguished  by  its  size  and  beauty,  and  by 
the  richness  of  its  furniture.  The  conqueror  rode  by  his  side  in  a  meaner 
attire,  and  carried  by  a  black  palfrey.  In  this  situation,  more  glorious  than 
all  the  insolent  parade  of  a  Roman  triumph,  he  passed  through  the  streets 
of  London,  and  presented  the  king  of  France  to  his  father,  who  advanced 
to  meet  him,  and  received  him  with  the  same  courtesy  as  if  he  had  been  a 
neighboring  potentate  that  had  voluntarily  come  to  pay  him  a  friendly 
visit.  It  is  impossible,  in  reflecting  on  this  noble  conduct,  not  to  perceive 
the  advantages  which  resulted  from  the  otherwise  whimsical  principles  of 
chivalry,  and  which  gave  men  in  those  rude  times  some  superiority  even 
over  people  of  a  more  cultivated  age  and  nation. 

VOLUME  V.— EXECUTION  OF  CHARLES  I. 

Three  days  were  allowed  the  king  between  his  sentence  and  his  execu- 
tion. This  interval  he  passed  with  great  tranquillity,  chiefly  in  reading 
and  devotion.  All  his  family  that  remained  in  England  were  allowed 
access  to  him.  It  consisted  only  of  the  princess  Elizabeth  and  the  duke 


HUME.  455 


of  Gloucester;  for  the  duke  of  York  had  made  his  escape.  Gloucester 
was  little  more  than  an  infant :  the  princess,  notwithstanding  her  tender 
years,  showed  an  advanced  judgment ;  and  the  calamities  of  her  family  had 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  her.  After  many  pious  consolations  and 
advices,  the  king  gave  her  in  charge  to  tell  the  queen,  that  during  the 
whole  course  of 'his  life,  he  had  never  once,  even  in  thought,  failed  in  his 
fidelity  towards  her ;  and  that  his  conjugal  tenderness  and  his  life  should 
have  an  equal  duration 

The  street  before  Whitehall  was  the  place  destined  for  the  execution ; 
for  it  was  intended,  by  choosing  that  very  place,  in  sight  of  his  own  palace, 
to  display  more  evidently  the  triumph  of  popular  justice  over  royal  majesty. 
When  the  king  came  upon  the  scaffold,  he  found  it  so  surrounded  with  sol- 
diers that  he  could  not  expect  to  be  heard  by  any  of  the  people:  he 
addressed,  therefore,  his  discourse  to  the  few  persons  who  were  about  him ; 
particularly  Colonel  Tomlinson,  to  whose  care  he  had  lately  been  commit- 
ted, and  upon  whom,  as  upon  many  others,  his  amiable  deportment  had 
wrought  an  entire  conversion.  He  justified  his  own  innocence  in  the  late 
fatal  wars ;  and  observed,  that  h£  had  not  taken  arms  till  after  the  Parlia- 
ment had  enlisted  forces ;  nor  had  he  any  other  object  in  his  warlike  opera- 
tions, than  to  preserve  that  authority  entire  which  his  predecessors  had 
transmitted  to  him.  He  threw  not,  however,  the  blame  upon  the  Parlia- 
ment, but  was  more  inclined  to  think  that  ill  instruments  had  interposed, 
and  raised  in  them  fears  and  jealousies  with  regard  to  his  intentions. 
Though  innocent  towards  his  people,  he  acknowledged  the  equity  of  his 
execution  in  the  eyes  of  his  Maker ;  and  observed,  that  an  unjuist  sentence 
which  he  had  suffered  to  take  effect,  was  now  punished  by  an  unjust  sen- 
tence upon  himself.  He  forgave  all  his  enemies,  even  the  chief  instru- 
ments of  his  death  ;  but  exhorted  them  and  the  whole  nation  to  retarn  to 
the  ways  of  peace,  by  paying  obedience  to  their  lawful  sovereign,  his  son 
and  successor. 

When  he  was  preparing  himself  for  the  block,  Bishop  Juxon  called  to 
him :  "  There  is,  sir,  but  one  stage  more,  which,  though  turbulent  and 
troublesome,  is  yet  a  very  short  one.  Consider,  it  will  soon  carry  you  a 
great  way ;  it  will  carry  you  from  earth  to  heaven ;  and  there  you  shall 
find,  to  your  great  joy,  the  prize  to  which  you  hasten,  a  crown  of  glory." 
"  I  go,"  replied  the  king,  "  from  a  corruptible  to  an  incorruptible  crown ; 
where  no  disturbance  can  have  place."  At  one  blow  was  his  head  severed 
from  his  body.  A  man  in  a  visor  performed  the  office  of  executioner: 
another,  in  a  like  disguise,  held  up  to  the  spectators  the  head,  streaming 
with  blood,  and  cried  aloud,  "  This  is  the  head  of  a  traitor ! " 

HIS   CHARACTER. 

The  character  of  this  prince,  as  that  of  most  men,  if  not  of  all  men,  was 
mixed ;  but  his  virtues  predominated  extremely  above  his  vices,  or,  more 
properly  speaking,  his  imperfections ;  for  scarce  any  of  his  faults  rose  to 
that  pitch  as  to  merit  the  appellation  of  vices.  To  consider  him  in  the 
most  favorable  light,  it  may  be  affirmed  that  his  dignity  was  free  from 
pride,  his  humanity  from  weakness,  his  bravery  from  rashness,  his  temper* 
ance  from  austerity,  his  frugality  from  avarice ;  all  these  virtues  in  him 
maintained  their  proper  bounds,  and  merited  unreserved  praise.  To  speak 
the  most  harshly  of  him,  we  may  affirm  that  many  of  his  good  qualities 
were  attended  with  some  latent  frailty,  which,  though  seemingly  inconsid- 


456  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

erable,  was  able,  when  seconded  by  the  extreme  malevolence  of  his  fortune, 
to  disappoint  them  of  all  their  influence :  his  beneficent  disposition  was 
clouded  by  a  manner  not  very  gracious ;  his  virtue  was  tinctured  Avith 
superstition ;  his  good  sense  \vas  disfigured  by  a  deference  to  persons  of  a 
capacity  inferior  to  his  OAvn  ;  and  his  moderate  temper  exempted  him  not 
from  hasty  and  precipitate  resolutions.  He  deserves  the  epithet  of  a  good, 
rather  than  of  a  great,  man  ;  and  was  more  fitted  to  rule  in  a  regular  estab- 
lished government,  than  either  to  give  way  to  the  encroachments  of  a 
popular  assembly,  or  finally  to  subdue  their  pretensions.  He  wanted  sup- 
pleness and  dexterity  sufficient  for  the  first  measure ;  he  was  not  endowed 
with  the  vigor  requisite  for  the  second. 

Had  he  been  born  an  absolute  prince,  his  humanity  and  good  sense  had 
rendered  his  reign  happy  and  his  memory  precious ;  had  the  limitations  on 
prerogative  been  in  his  time  quite  fixed  and  certain,  his  integrity  had  made 
him  regard  as  sacred  the  boundaries  of  the  constitution.  Unhappily,  his 
fate  threw  him  into  a  period  Avhen  the  precedents  of  many  former  reigns 
savored  strongly  of  arbitrary  power,  and  the  genius  of  the  people  ran  vio- 
lently toAvards  liberty.  And  if  his  political  prudence  was  not  sufficient  to 
extricate  him  from  so  perilous  a  situation,  he  may  be  excused ;  since,  even 
after  the  event,  Avhen  it  is  commonly  easy  to  correct  all  errors,  one  is  at  a 
loss  to  determine  what  conduct,  in  his  circumstances,  could  have  maintained 
the  authority  of  the  crown,  and  preserved  the  peace  of  the  nation.  Ex- 
posed, without  revenue,  without  arms,  to  the  assault  of  furious,  implacable, 
and  bigoted  factions,  it  Avas  never  permitted  him,  but  Avith  the  most  fatal 
consequences,  to  commit  the  smallest  mistake ;  a  condition  too  rigorous  to 
be  imposed  on  the  greatest  human  capacity. 

#•*##'###  •;:-  -:f 

This  prince  was  of  a  comely  presence ;  of  a  SAveet,  but  melancholy  aspect. 
His  face  was  regular,  handsome,  and  Avell  complexioned ;  his  body  strong, 
healthy,  and  justly  proportioned ;  and  being  of  a  middle  stature  he  Avas 
capable  of  enduring  the  greatest  fatigues.  He  excelled  in  horsemanship 
and  other  exercises ;  and  he  possessed  all  the  exterior,  as  AArell  as  many  of 
the  essential  qualities  which  form  an  accomplished  prince. 

Our  citations  of  critical  opinions  will  aim  to  present  Hume  in 
his  three  distinctive  characters  of  a  philosophical  writer,  a  political 
writer,  and  an  historian. 

Speaking  of  his  moral  and  metaphysical  essays,  Lord  Brougham 
observes :  "  To  refuse  these  well-known  essays  the  praise  of  great 
subtilty,  much  clever  argument,  some  successful  sarcasm,  and  very 
considerable  originality,  is  impossible ;  but  a  love  of  singularity, 
an  aversion  to  agree  with  other  men,  and  particularly  with  the  bulk 
of  the  people,  prevails  very  manifestly  throughout  the  work ;  and 
we  may  recollect  that  it  is  the  author's  earliest  production,  The 
Treatise  of  Human  Nature,  Avhich  formed  the  basis  of  the  whole, 
having  been  written  before  his  six-and-twentieth  year,  at  an  age 
Avhen  the  distinction  of  differing  with  the  world,  the  boldness  of 
attacking  opinions  held  sacred  by  mankind  at  large,  is  apt  to  have 
most  charms  for  vain  and  ambitious  minds.  Accordingly,  he  finds 
all  wrong  in  the  opinions  which  men  generally  entertain,  whether 


HUME.  457 


upon  moral,  metaphysical,  or  theological  subjects,  and  he  pushes 
his  theories  to  an  extreme  point  in  almost  every  instance." 

"  The  philosophy  of  Hume,  as  a  whole,  originated  and  fell  with 
himself.  A  more  partial  and  less  daring  scepticism  might,  prob- 
ably, have  gained  many  followers  ;  but  it  is  the  inevitable  result  of 
every  system,  professing  universal  unbelief,  to  destroy  itself."  * 

"  Of  the  Political  Discourses  it  would  be  difficult  to  speak  in  terms 
of  too  great  commendation.  They  combine  almost  every  excel- 
lence, which  can  belong  to  such  a  performance The  great 

merit,  however,  of  these  discourses,  is  their  originality,  and  the 
new  system  of  politics  and  political  economy  which  they  unfold. 
Hume  is,  beyond  all  doubt,  the  author  of  the  modern  doctrines 
which  now  rule  the  world  of  science,  which  are  to  a  great  extent 
the  guide  to  practical  statesmen."  f 

"  Hume's  History  is  scarcely  better  than  a  fiction.  It  is  hardly 
more  reliable  than  the  works  of  Carte  or  Oldmixon  ;  and  far  less 
excusable,  since  it  pretends  to  philosophic  impartiality.  A  witness 
on  the  stand,  who  should  give  such  an  account  of  facts  with  which 
lie  was  familiar,  omitting  those  that  made  against  his  purpose,  and 
dwelling  on  those  that  favored  it,  would  be  guilty  of  a  suppression 
of  the  truth,  and  would  violate  his  oath.  An  historian,  pretending 
to  impartiality,  who  thus  distorts  the  truth,  is  guilty  of  the  greatest 
offense.  He  is  telling  to  posterity  a  tale  that  he  knows  to  be  false. 

"We  read  it,  not  so  much  for  information,  as  for  an  agreeable 
intellectual  exercise.  We  admire  its  subtile  disputations,  its  artful 
array  of  facts,  the  genius  which  shines  in  its  false  narrative,  and 
illuminates  its  unsound  disputations.  Its  scenes  of  pathos  fascinate 
us,  although  we  feel  that  our  pity  is  wrongly  bestowed.  Its  nice 
balance  of  opposing  arguments,  with  a  bias  ever  to  one  side,  satis- 
fies our  judgment  as  a  specimen  of  peculiar  mental  power. 

"His  style  has  an  endless  rhythm  like  the  verse  of  Shakespeare, 
and  never  fails  in  harmony.  His  rhythm  is  peculiar  to  himself. 
It  differs  from  that  of  Robertson  and  Gibbon,  and  the  latter  declared 
that  he  listened  to  it  in  despair.  It  has  no  resemblance  to  the  sound- 
ing periods  of  Jeremy  Taylor,  or  the  simpler  flow  of  Addison. 
Hume's  ear  for  harmony  was  perfect,  and  his  great  thoughts  shaped 
themselves  into  delicate  modulations  of  language  as  naturally  as 
those  of  Homer  compressed  themselves  in  verse."  % 

*  Mordl's  History  of  Modern  Philosophy.  t  Lord  Brougham. 

%  The  Lives  of  the  British  Historians :  Eugene  Lawrence. 


RICHARD   BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN. 


RICHARD  BRINSLEY  SHERIDAN  was  born  in  Dublin,  in  Sep- 
tember, 1751.  When  eleven  years  of  age, — his  parents  in  the 
meantime  having  removed  to  England, — he  was  sent  to  school 
at  Harrow,  where  he  remained  some  seven  or  eight  years, 
acquiring  a  greater  name  for  a  vivacious  and  mischievous  leader 
of  games,  than  for  a  diligent  or  successful  student  of  books. 
However,  according  to  Dr.  Parr,  he  "  read  Homer's  Iliad  now 
and  then ;  not  as  a  professed  scholar  would  do,  critically,  but 
with  all  the  strong  sympathies  of  a  poet  reading  a  poet." 

Sheridan's  natural  warmth,  sprightliness,  and  gallantry  were 
further  displayed  in  an  affair  at  Bath,  whither  his  father  had 
removed  in  1771.  Here  he  became  enamored  of  the  beautiful 
and  accomplished  Miss  Linley — "  the  Cecilia  of  her  day,"  whom, 
despite  paternal  opposition  and  the  slanders  of  an  infamous 
rival,  he  eloped  with  and  married.  His  wife's  wounded  honor 
he  afterwards  sought  to  retrieve  by  two  duels,  in  one  of  which 
he  is  reported  to  have  nearly  lost  his  life. 

The  steady  application  essential  to  success  as  a  lawyer  was 
an  element  lacking  in  Sheridan's  composition;  hence,  after  a 
brief  spasm  of  study  in  the  Middle  Temple,  we  find  him  turning 
with  genuine  relish  to  play-writing.  His  first  play  was  The 
Rivals — a  comedy,  which  was  first  performed  at  Covent  Garden 
in  January,  1775.  This  was  followed  the  same  year  by  the 
Duenna — a  comic  opera,  for  which  his  father-in-law  furnished 
the  music. 

About  this  time  Sheridan  succeeded  Garrick  as  part-owner 
and  manager  of  Drury-lane  Theatre.  Here  he  brought  out,  in 
May,  1777,  his  most  admirable  play — the  inimitable  and  pop- 
ular comedy  of  The  School  for  Scandal,  and  in  October,  1788, 
The  Oritic,  a  farce  that  still  continues  to  be  a  favorite.  Pizarro, 
which  followed,  far  from  being  an  original  production,  was  an 
almost  literal  translation  of  one  of  Kotzebue's  plays. 

458 


SHERIDAN.  459 


Some  years  before  our  last  date — in  1780 — Sheridan  suc- 
ceeded in  gratifying  a  newly-developed  aspiration  for  political 
honors  by  a  return  to  Parliament  for  Stafford.  From  this  time 
until  1812  he  figured  in  public  life,  certainly  as  one  of  the  most 
splendid  orators,  though  not  one  of  the  profoundest  or  most  suc- 
cessful statesmen,  of  the  epoch.  The  most  memorable  of  his 
numerous  oratorical  efforts  was  his  speech  against  Warren  Hast- 
ings, relative  to  the  Begum  Princesses  of  Oude,  delivered  in 
the  House  of  Commons  on  the  7th  of  February,  1787.  Burke 
declared  the  speech  to  be  "  the  most  astonishing  burst  of  elo- 
quence, argument,  and  wit  united,  of  which  there  was  any 
record  or  tradition." 

Embarrassments,  arising  from  loss  of  property,  financial  mis- 
management, extravagant  habits,  and  broken  health  occasioned 
by  life-long  dissipation,  vexed  and  sadly  marred  the  latter  years 
of  his  life.  He  died  July  7,  1816. 

Our  first  extract  displays  The  School  for  Scandal  in  full  oper- 
ation. 

ACT  IL 
SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  Lady  Sneerwell's  House. 

Lady  Sneerwell,  Mrs.  Candor,  Crabtree,  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite,  and 
Joseph  Surface,  discovered. 

Lady  Sneer.  Nay,  positively,  we  will  hear  it. 

Jos.  Surf.  Yes,  yes,  the  epigram,  by  all  means. 

Sir  Ben.  O  plague  on 't,  uncle !  'tis  mere  nonsense. 

Crab.  No,  no ;  'fore  Gad,  very  clever  for  an  extempore  ! 

Sir  Ben.  But,  ladies,  you  should  be  acquainted  with  the  circum- 
stance. You  must  know,  that  one  day  last  week,  as  Lady  Betty 
Curricle  was  taking  the  dust  in  Hyde  Park,  in  a  sort  of  duodecimo 
phaeton,  she  desired  me  to  write  some  verses  on  her  ponies ;  upon 
which,  I  took  out  my  pocket-book,  and  in  one  moment  produced  the 
following : — 

Sure  never  were  seen  two  such  beautiful  ponies ; 
Other  horses  are  clowns,  but  these  macaronies :    . 
To  give  them  this  title  I  'm  sure  can't  be  wrong, 
Their  legs  are  so  slim,  and  their  tails  are  so  long. 

Crab.  There,  ladies,  done  in  the  smack  of  a  whip,  and  on  horse- 
back, too. 

Jos.  Surf.  A  very  Phoebus,  mounted— indeed,  Sir  Benjamin ! 
Sir  Ben.  Oh,  dear,  sir!  trifles— trifles. 


460  MAXUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


Enter  LADY  TEAZLE  and  MARIA. 

Mrs.  Can.  I  must  have  a  copy. 

Lady  Sneer.  Lady  Teazle,  I  hope  we  shall  see  Sir  Peter  ? 

Lady  Teaz.  I  believe  he'll  wait  on  your  ladyship  presently. 

Lady  Snerr.  Maria,  my  love,  you  look  grave.  Come*  you  shall  sit 
down  to  piquet  with  Mr.  Surface. 

Mar.  I  take  very  little  pleasure  in  cards — however,  I  '11  do  as  your 
ladyship  pleases. 

Lady  Teaz.  I  am  surprised  Mr.  Surface  should  sit  down  with  her ;  I 
thought  he  would  have  embraced  this  opportunity  of  speaking  to  me 
before  Sir  Peter  came.  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Can.  Now,  I  '11  die ;  but  you  are  so  scandalous,  I  '11  forswear 
your  society. 

Lady  Teaz.  What 's  the  matter,  Mrs.  Candor  ? 

Mrs.  Can.  They  '11  not  allow  our  friend,  Miss  Vermilion,  to  be  hand- 
some. 

Lady  Sneer.  Oh,  surely  she  is  a  pretty  woman. 

Crab.  I  am  very  glad  you  think  so,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Can.  She  has  a  charming  fresh  color. 

Lady  Teaz.  Yes,  when  it  is  fresh  put  on. 

Mrs.  Can.  Oh,  fie !  I  '11  swear  her  color  is  natural ;  I  have  seen  it 
come  and  go ! 

Lady  Teaz.  I  dare  swear  you  have,  ma'am :  it  goes  off  at  night,  and 
comes  again  in  the  morning. 

Sir  Ben.  True,  ma'am,  it  not  only  comes  and  goes ;  but,  what 's  more, 
egad,  her  maid  can  fetch  and  carry  it. 

Mrs.  Can.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  how  I  hate  to  hear  you  talk  so !  But  surely, 
now,  her  sister  is,  or  was,  very  handsome. 

Crab.  Who  ?  Mrs.  Evergreen  ?  O  Lord !  she 's  six-and-fifty,  if  she 's 
an  hour ! 

Mrs.  Can.  Now  positively  you  wrong  her ;  fifty -two  or  fifty-three  is 
the  utmost — and  I  don't  think  she  looks  more. 

Sir  Ben.  Ah  !  there  's  no  judging  by  her  looks,  unless  one  could  see 
her  face. 

Lady  Sneer.  Well,  well,  if  Mrs.  Evergreen  does  take  some  pains  to 
repair  the  ravages  of  time,  you  must  allow  she  effects  it  with  great 
ingenuity' ;  and  surely  that 's  better  than  the  careless  manner  in  which 
the  widow  Ochre  caulks  her  wrinkles. 

Sir  Ben.  Nay,  now,  Lady  Sneerwell,  you  are  severe  upon  the  widow. 
Come,  come,  't  is  not  that  she  paints  so  ill— but,  when  she  has  finished 
her  face,  she  joins  it  on  so  badly  to  her  neck,  that  she  looks  like  a 
mended  statue,  in  which  the  connoisseur  may  see  at  once  that  the 
Irud  is  modern,  though  the  trunk's  antique. 


SHERIDAN.  461 


Crab.  Ha!  ha!  ha!    Well  said,  nephew. 

Mrs.  Can.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  "Well,  you  make  me  laugh ;  but  I  vow  I 
hate  you  for  it.  What  do  you  think  of  Miss  Simper  ? 

Sir  Ben.  Why,  she  has  very  pretty  teeth. 

Lady  Teaz.  Yes ;  and  on  that  account,  when  she  is  neither  speaking 
nor  laughing  (which  very  seldom  happens),  she  never  absolutely 
shuts  her  mouth,  but  leaves  it  always  on  a-jar,  as  it  were — thus. 

[Shows  her  teeth. 

Mrs.  Can.  How  can  you  be  so  ill-natured  ? 

Lady  Teaz.  Nay,  I  allow  even  that's  better  than  the  pains  Mrs. 
Prim  takes  to  conceal  her  losses  in  front.  She  draws  her  mouth  till 
it  positively  resembles  the  aperture  of  a  poor's-box,  and  all  her  words 
appear  to  slide  out  edgewise,  as  ifrwere— thus :  How  do  you  do,  madam  ? 
Yes,  madam.  [Mimics. 

Lady  Sneer.  Very  well,  Lady  Teazle ;  I  see  you  can  be  a  little 
severe. 

Lady  Teaz.  In  defense  of  a  friend  it  is  but  justice.  But  here  comes 
Sir  Peter  to  spoil  our  pleasantry. 

Enter  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE. 

Sir  Pet.  Ladies,  your  most  obedient. — [Aside.'] — Mercy  on  me,  here 
is  the  whole  set !  a  character  dead  at  every  word,  I  suppose. 

Mrs.  Can.  I  am  rejoiced  you  are  come,  Sir  Peter.  They  have  been 
so  censorious — and  Lady  Teazle  as  bad  as  any  one. 

Sir  Pet.  That  must  be  very  distressing  to  you,  indeed,  Mrs.  Candor. 

Mrs.  Can.  Oh,  they  will  allow  good  qualities  to  nobody ;  not  even 
good  nature  to  our  friend  Mrs.  Pursy. 

Lady  Teaz.  What,  the  fat  dowager  who  was  at  Mrs.  Quadrille's  last 
night? 

Mrs.  Can.  Nay,  her  bulk  is  her  misfortune  ;  and,  when  she  takes  so 
much  pains  to  get  rid  of  it,  you  ought  not  to  reflect  on  her. 

Lady  Sneer.  That 's  very  true,  indeed. 

Lady  Teaz.  Yes,  I  know  she  almost  lives  on  acids  and  small  whey ; 
laces  herself  by  pulleys  ;  and  often,  in  the  hottest  noon  in  summer, 
you  may  see  her  on  a  little  squat  pony,  with  her  hair  plaited  up 
behind  like  a  drummer's,  and  puffing  round  the  Ring  on  a  full  trot. 

Mrs.  Can.  I  thank  you,  Lady  Teazle,  for  defending  her. 

Sir  Pet.  Yes,  a  good  defense,  truly. 

Mrs.  Can.  Truly,  Lady  Teazle  is  as  censorious  as  Miss  Sallow. 

Crab.  Yes,  and  she  is  a  curious  being  to  pretend  to  be  censorious — 
an  awkward  gawky,  without  any  one  good  point  under  heaven. 

Mrs.  Can.  Positively  you  shall  not  be  so  severe.     Miss  Sallow  is  a 
near  relation  of  mine  by  marriage,  and,  as  for  her  person,  great 
39* 


462  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

allowance  is  to  be  made  ;  for,  let  me  tell  you,  a  woman  labors  under 
many  disadvantages  who  tries  to  pass  for  a  girl  of  six-and-thirty. 

Lady  Sneer.  Though,  surely,  she  is  handsome  still— and  for  the 
weakness  in  her  eyes,  considering  how  much  she  reads  by  candle- 
light, it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at. 

Mrs.  Can.  True,  and  then  as  to  her  manner ;  upon  my  word  I  think 
it  is  particularly  graceful,  considering  she  never  had  the  least  edu- 
cation:  for  you  know  her  mother  was  a  Welsh  milliner,  and  her 
father  a  sugar-baker  at  Bristol. 

Sir  Sen.  Ah  !  you  are  both  of  you  too  good-natured  ! 

Sir  Pet.  Yes,  damned  good-natured!  This  their  own  relation! 
mercy  on  me  !  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Can.  For  my  part,  I  own  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  a  friend  ill 
spoken  of. 

Sir  Pet.  No,  to  be  sure ! 

Sir  Ben.  Ah  !  you  are  of  a  moral  turn.  Mrs.  Candor  and  I  can  sit 
for  an  hour  and  hear  Lady  Stucco  talk  sentiment. 

Lady  Teaz.  Nay,  I  vow  Lady  Stucco  is  very  well  with  the  dessert 
after  dinner ;  for  she 's  just  like  the  French  fruit  one  cracks  for  mot- 
toes—made up  of  paint  and  proverb. 

Mrs.  Can.  Well,  I  will  never  join  in  ridiculing  a  friend ;  and  so  I 
constantly  tell  my  cousin  Ogle,  and  you  all  know  what  pretensions 
she  has  to  be  critical  on  beauty. 

Crab.  Oh,  to  be  sure !  she  has  herself  the  oddest  countenance  that 
ever  was  seen;  'tis  a  collection  of  features  from  all  the  different 
countries  of  the  globe. 

Sir  Ben.  So  she  has,  indeed — an  Irish  front — 

Crab.  Caledonian  locks — 

Sir  Ben.  Dutch  nose — 

Crab.  Austrian  lips — 

Sir  Ben.  Complexion  of  a  Spaniard — 

Crab.  And  teeth  a  la  Chinoise — 

Sir  Ben.  In  short,  her  face  resembles  a  table  d'  hote  at  Spa— where 
no  two  guests  are  of  a  nation — 

Crab.  Or  a  congress  at  the  close  of  a  general  war — wherein  all  the 
members,  even  to  her  eyes,  appear  to  have  a  different  interest,  and 
her  nose  and  chin  are  the  only  parties  likely  to  join  issue. 

Mrs.  Can.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Sir  .Pet.  Mercy  on  my  life!— a  person  they  dine  with  twice  a 
week !  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Can.  Nay,  but  I  vow  you  shall  not  carry  the  laugh  off  so — for 
give  me  leave  to  say,  that  Mrs.  Ogle — 


SHERIDAN.  463 


Sir  Pet.  Madam,  madam,  I  beg  your  pardon — there's  no  stopping 
these  good  gentlemen's  tongues.  But  when  I  tell  you,  Mrs.  Candor, 
that  the  lady  they  are  abusing  is  a  particular  friend  of  mine,  I  hope 
you  '11  not  take  her  part. 

Lady  Sneer.  Ha!  ha!,  ha!  well  said,  Sir  Peter !  but  you  are  a  cruel 
creature — too  phlegmatic  yourself  for  a  jest,  and  too  peevish  to  allow 
wit  in  others. 

Sir  Pet.  Ah,  madam,  true  wit  is  more  nearly  allied  to  good  nature 
than  your  ladyship  is  aware  of. 

Lady  Teaz.  True,  Sir  Peter:  I  believe  they  are  so  near  akin  that 
they  can  never  be  united. 

Sir  Ben.  Or  rather,  suppose  them  man  and  wife,  because  one  sel- 
dom sees  them  together. 

Lady  Teaz.  But  Sir  Peter  is  such  an  enemy  to  scandal,  I  believe  he 
would  have  it  put  down  by  parliament. 

Sir  Pet.  'Fore  heaven,  madam,  if  they  vrere  to  consider  the  sport- 
ing with  reputation  of  as  much  importance  as  poaching  on  manors, 
and  pass  an  act  for  the  preservation  of  fame,  as  well  as  game,  I 
believe  many  would  thank  ihem  for  the  bill. 

Lady  Sneer.  0  Lud !  Sir  Peter ;  would  you  deprive  us  of  our 
privileges  ? 

Sir  Pet.  Ay,  madam ;  and  then  no  person  should  be  permitted  to 
kill  characters  and  run  down  reputations,  but  qualified  old  maids 
and  disappointed  widows. 

Lady  Sneer.  Go,  you  monster  1 

Mrs.  Can.  But,  surely,  you  would  not  be  quite  so  severe  on  those 
who  only  report  what  they  hear  ? 

Sir  Pet.  Yes,  madam,  I  would  have  law-merchant  for  them  too ; 
and  in  all  cases  of  slander  currency,  whenever  the  drawer  of  the  lie 
was  not  to  be  found,  the  injured  parties  should  have  a  right  to  come 
on  any  of  the  indorsers. 

Grab.  Well,  for  my  part,  I  believe  there  never  was  a  scandalous 
tale  without  some  foundation. 

Lady  Sneer.  Come,  ladies,  shall  we  sit  down  to  cards  in  the  next 
room? 

Enter  Servant,  who  whispers  SIR  PETER. 

Sir  Pet.  I  '11  be  with  them  directly.— (Exit  Servant.)  I  '11  get  away 
unperceived.  [Aside. 

Lady  Sneer.  Sir  Peter,  you  are  not  going  to  leave  us  ? 

Sir  Pet.  Your  ladyship  must  excuse  me;  I'm  called  away  by  par- 
ticular business.  But  I  leave  my  character  behind  me.  [Exit. 

Our  remaining  extracts  are  from  the  celebrated  Speech  against 
Warren  Hastings.  Referring  to  the  apology  urged  by  Mr.  Hast- 


464  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ings'  friends  that  the  enormity  of  his  crimes  was  palliated  by  tho 
greatness  of  his  mind,  Sheridan  remarked : 

To  estimate  the  solidity  of  such  a  defense,  it  would  be  sufficient  merely 
to  consider  in  what  consisted  this  prepossessing  distinction,  this  captivating 
characteristic  of  greatness  of  mind.  Is  it  not  solely  to  be  traced  to  great 
actions  directed  to  great  ends?  In  them,  and  them  "alone,  we  are  to  search 
for  true,  estimable  magnanimity.  To  them  only  can  we  justly  affix  the 
splendid  title  and  honors  of  real  greatness.  There  was  indeed  another 
species  of  greatness,  which  displayed  itself  in  boldly  conceiving  a  bad 
measure,  and  undauntedly  pursuing  it  to  its  accomplishment.  But  had 
Mr.  Hastings  the  merit  of  exhibiting  either  of  these  descriptions  of  great- 
ness ; — even  of  the  latter  ? — I  see  nothing  great — nothing  magnanimous — 
nothing  open — nothing  direct  in  his  measures  or  in  his  mind  ; — on  the  con- 
trary, he  had  too  often  pursued  the  worst  objects  by  the  worst  means.  His 
course  was  an  eternal  deviation  from  rectitude.  He  either  tyrannized  or 
deceived ;  and  was  by  turns  a  Dionysius  and  a  Scapin.  As  well  might  the 
writhing  obliquity  of  the  serpent  be  compared  to  the  swift  directness  of  the 
arrow,  as  the  duplicity  of  Mr.  Hastings'  ambition  to  the  simple  steadiness 
of  genuine  magnanimity.  In  his  mind  all  was  shuffling,  ambiguous,  dark, 
insidious,  and  little :  nothing  simple,  nothing  unmixed :  all  affected  plain- 
ness, and  actual  dissimulation;— a  heterogeneous  mass  of  contradictory 
qualities ;  with  nothing  great  but  his  crimes ;  and  even  those  contracted  by 
the  littleness  of  his  motives,  which  at  once  denoted  both  his  baseness  and 
his  meanness,  and  marked  him  for  a  traitor  and  a  trickster. 

Nay,  in  his  style  and  writing  there  was  the  same  mixture  of  vicious  con- 
trarieties;— the  most  groveling  ideas  were  conveyed  in  the  most  inflated 
language ;  giving  mock  consequence  to  low  cavil,  "and  uttering  quibbles  in 
heroics ;  so  that  his  compositions  disgusted  the  mind's  taste,  as  much  as  his 
actions  excited  the  soul's  abhorrence.  Indeed  this  mixture  of  character 
seemed  by  some  unaccountable,  but  inherent  quality,  to  be  appropriated, 
though  in  inferior  degrees,  to  everything  that  concerned  his  employers.  I 
remember  to  have  heard  an  honorable  and  learned  gentleman  remark,  that 
there  was  something  in  the  first  frame  and  constitution  of  the  company, 
which  extended  the  sordid  principles  of  their  origin  over  all  their  succes- 
sive operations ;  connecting  with  their  civil  policy,  and  even  with  their 
boldest  achievements,  the  meanness  of  a  peddler,  and  the  profligacy  of 
pirates.  Alike  in  the  political  and  the  military  line  could  be  observed 
auctioneering  ambassador*  and  trading  generally  ; — and  thus  we  saw  a  revolu- 
tion brought  about  by  affidavits  ;  an  army  employed  in  executing  an  arrest ; 
a  town  besieged  on  a  note  of  hand  ;  a  prince  dethroned  for  the  balance  of  an 
account.  Thus  it  was  they  exhibited  a  government  which  united  the  mock 
majesty  of  a  bloody  sceptre  and  the  little  traffic  of  a  merchant's  counting-house, 
\vielding  a  truncheon  with  one  hand,  and  picking  a  pocket  with  the  other. 

In  alluding  to  the  Princesses  of  Oude,  Sheridan  remarked  : 

The  managers  have  proven  the  high  birth  and  great  rank  of  the  Begums, 
or  Princesses  of  Oude ;  they  have  also  proven  how  sacred  was  the  residence 
of  women  in  India.  A  threat,  therefore,  to  force  that  residence,  and  violate 
its  purity  by  sending  armed  men  into  it,  was  a  species  of  torture,  the  cruelty 
of  which  could  not  be  conceived  by  those  who  were  unacquainted  with  the 
customs  and  notions  01'  the  inhabitants  of  Hindostan.  A  knowledge  of  the 


SHERIDAN.  465 


customs  and  manners  of  the  Mussulmen  of  Turkey  would  not  enable  one  to 
judge  of  those  of  Mussulmen  in  India :  in  the  former,  ladies  went  abroad 
veiled,  and,  though  not  so  free  as  those  in  (Jhristian  countries,  still  they  were 
not  so  closely  shut  up  as  were  the  ladies  professing  the  same  religion  in  Hin- 
dostan.  The  confinement  of  the  Turkish  ladies  was  in  a  great  measure  to  be 
ascribed  to  the  jealousy  of  their  husbands ;  in  Hindostan  the  ladies  were 
confined  because  they  thought  it  contrary  to  decorum  that  persons  of  their 
sex  should 'be  seen  abroad :  they  were  not  the  victims  of  jealousy  in  the  men ; 
on  the  contrary,  their  sequestration  from  the  world  was  voluntary ;  they 
liked  retirement,  because  they  thought  it  best  suited  to  the  dignity  of  their 
sex  and  situation;  they  were  shut  up  from  liberty,  it  was  true ;  but  liberty, 
so  far  from  having  any  charms  for  them,  was  derogatory  to  their  feelings ; 
they  were  enshrined  rather  than  immured ;  they  professed  a  greater  purity 
of  pious  prejudice  than  the  Mahommedan  ladies  of  Europe  and  other  coun- 
tries, and  more  zealously  and  religiously  practiced  a  more  holy  system  of 
superstition.  Such  was  their  sense  of  delicacy,  that  to  them  the  sight  of 
man  was  pollution ;  and  the  piety  of  the  nation  rendered  their  residence  a 
sanctuary.  What,  then,  do  your  lordships  think  of  the  tyranny  of  the 
man,  who  could  act  in  open  defiance  of  those  prejudices,  which  were  so 
interwoven  with  the  very  existence  of  ladies  in  that  country,  that  they 
could  not  be  removed  but  by  death  ?  What  do  your  lordships  think  of  the 
man,  who  could  threaten  to  profane  and  violate  the  sanctuary  of  the  high- 
est description  of  ladies  in  Oude,  by  saying  that  he  would  storm  it  with  his 
troops,  and  remove  the  inhabitants  from  it  by  force  ? 

The  speech  closes  as  follows : 

But  justice  is  not  this  halt  and  miserable  object !  it  is  not  the  ineffective 
bauble  of  an  Indian  pagod  ! — it  is  not  the  portentous  phantom  of  despair ; 
— it  is  not  like  any  fabled  monster,  formed  in  the  eclipse  of  reason,  and 
found  in  some  unhallowed  grove  of  superstitious  darkness  and  political  dis- 
may !  No,  my  lords !  In  the  happy  reverse  of  all  these,  I  turn  from  this 
disgusting  caricature  to  the  real  image !  Justice  I  have  now  before  me, 
august  and  pure;  the  abstract  idea  of  all  that  would  he  perfect  in  the 
spirits  and  in  the  aspirings  of  men ! — where  the  mind  rises,  where  the 
heart  expands — where  the  countenance  is  ever  placid  and  benign — where 
her  favorite  attitude  is  to  stoop  to  the  unfortunate— to  hear  their  cry  and 
to  help  them,  to  rescue  and  relieve,  to  succor  and  save :  —  majestic  from  its 
mercy ;  venerable  from  its  utility ;  uplifted  without  pride ;  firm  without 
obduracy  ;  beneficent  in  each  preference ;  lovely,  though  in  her  frown ! 

On  that  justice  I  rely;  deliberate  and  sure,  abstracted  from  all  party 
purpose  and  political  speculations !  not  in  words,  but  on  facts !  You,  my 
lords,  who  hear  me,  I  conjure  by  those  rights  it  is  your  best  privilege  to 
preserve;  by  that  fame  it  is  your  best  pleasure  to  "inherit;  by  all  those 
feelings  which  refer  to  the  first  term  in  the  series  of  existence,  the  original 
compact  of  our  nature — our  controlling  rank  in  the  creation.  This  is  the 
call  on  all  to  administer  truth  and  equity,  as  they  would  satisfy  the  laws 
and  satisfy  themselves,  with  the  most  exalted  bliss  possible,  or  conceivable 
for  our  nature, — the  self-approving  consciousness  of  virtue,  when  the  con- 
demnation we  look  for  will  be  one  of  the  most  ample  mercies  accomplished 
for  mankind  since  the  creation  of  the  world !  My  lords,  I  have  done. 

"Sheridan's  comedies  were  comedies  of  society,  the  most  amusing 
ever  written,  but  merely  comedies  of  society.  His  first  play,  The 

2E 


466  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Rivals,  and  afterwards  his  Duenna,  and  The  Critic,  are  loaded  wfth 
exaggerated  caricatures,  and  scarce  anything  else.  There  is  Mrs. 
Malaprop,  a  silly,  pretentious  woman,  who  uses  grand  words 
higgledy-piggledy,  delighted  with  herself,  in  'a  nice  derangement 
of  epitaphs '  before  her  nouns,  and  declaring  that  her  niece  is  '  as 
headstrong  as  an  allegory  on  the  hanks  of  the  Nile.'  There  is  Mr. 
Acres,  who  suddenly  becomes  a  hero,  gets  engaged  in  a  duel,  and 
being  led  on  the  ground,  calculates  the  effect  of  the  balls,  thinks 
of  his  will,  burial,  embalmment,  and  wishes  he  were  at  home.  All 
this  jogs  and  jostles  on,  without  much  order,  amid  the  surprises  of 
a  twofold  plot,  by  aid  of  expedients  and  rencontres,  without  the 
full  and  regular  government  of  a  dominating  idea.  But  in  vain 
one  perceives  it  is  a  patchwork  ;  the  high  spirit  carries  off  every- 
thing: we  laugh  heartily  ;  every  single  scene  has  its  facetious  and 
rapid  movement;  we  forget  that  the  clumsey  valet  makes  remarks 
as  witty  as  Sheridan  himself,  and  that  the  irascible  gentleman 
speaks  as  well  as  the  most  elegant  of  writers. 

"  This  kind  of  writing,  artificial  and  condensed  as  the  satires  of 
La  Bruyere,  is  like  a  cut  phial,  into  which  the  author  has  distilled 
without  reservation  all  his  reflections,  his  reading,  his  understand- 
ing. .  .  .  We  cease  to  think  of  the  m eagerness  of  the  characters,  as 
we  cease  to  think  of  the  variation  from  truth  ;  we  are  willingly 
carried  away  by  tho  vivacity  of  the  action,  dazzled  by  the  brilliancy 
of  the  dialogue ;  we  are  charmed,  applaud  ;  admit  that,  after  all, 
next  to  great  inventive  faculty,  animation  and  wit  are  the  most 
agreeable  gifts  in  the  world:  we  appreciate  them  in  their  season, 
and  find  that  they  also  have  their  place  in  the  literary  banquet; 
and  that  if  they  are  not  worth  as  much  as  the  substantial  joints,  (he 
natural  and  generous  wines  of  the  first  course,  at  least  they  furnish 
the  dessert."* 

What  Burke  says  concerning  Sheridan's  Begum  Speech  could 
not  be  spoken  of  any  other  of  his  oratorical  efforts ;  though  all  of 
them  abounded  in  sallies  of  wit  and  flashes  of  fervid  eloquence 
altogether  characteristic.  Burke  says :  "  Of  all  the  various  speeches 
of  oratory,  of  every  kind  of  eloquence  that  had  been  heard  either 
in  ancient  or  modern  times,  whatever  the  acuteness  of  the  bar,  the 
dignity  of  the  senate,  or  the  morality  of  the  pulpits  could  furnish^ 
had  not  been  equal  to  what  that  House  had  that  day  heard  in 
Westminster  Hall.  No  holy  religionist,  no  man  of  any  description 
as  a  literary  character,  could  have  come  up  in  the  one  instance  to 
the  pure  sentiments  of  morality,  or,  in  the  other,  to  the  variety  of 
knowledge,  force  of  imagination,  propriety  and  vivacity  of  allusion, 
beauty  and  elegance  of  diction,  and  strength  of  expression,  to 
which  they  had  this  day  listened." 

*  Taine's  English  Literature. 


EDMUND    BURKE. 


EDMUND  BURKE  was  born  in  the  city  of  Dublin,  January  1, 
1730.  Being  of  a  very  delicate  constitution,  he  employed  the 
time  which  boys  usually  spend  in  sports  in  the  perusal  of  books 
and  the  pursuit  of  knowledge.  In  1741,  he  was  sent  to  the 
classical  academy  at  Ballitore,  in  the  county  of  Kildare,  then 
under  the  direction  of  that  honest  Quaker  and  ripe  scholar 
Abraham  Shackleton,  between  whom  and  Burke  there  arose  a 
life-long  intimacy.  Here  "  his  habits,"  as  Shackleton  said, 
"indicated  more  of  solidity  than  commonly  belongs  to  that  period 
of  life.  His  powers  appeared  not  so  much  in  brilliancy  as  in 
steadiness  of  application,  facility  of  comprehension,  and  strength 
of  memory  ;  indications  which  drew  the  commendation  first, 
and,  as  his  powers  unfolded'  themselves,  soon  the  warm  regard 
of  his  master,  under  whose  paternal  care  the  improvement  of 
his  health  kept  pace  with  that  of  his  mind.  The  grateful  pupil 
never  forgot  his  obligations."  * 

When  he  had  spent  three  years  at  the  academy,  Burke  was 
entered  as  a  pensioner  in  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  At  college 
he  proved  an  indefatigable  and  exemplary  student ;  but  bent 
his  mind  more  to  the  acquisition  of  a  broad,  varied,  and  well- 
arranged  knowledge,  and  a  mastery  in  speaking  and  in  compo- 
sition, than  to  the  attainment  of  collegiate  honors.  About  1750 
he  removed  to  London,  and  there  pursued  the  study  of  the  law; 
but,  diverted  probably  by  his  early  bias  for  general  culture,  he 
never  began  its  practice. 

His  first  work  of  note  was  A  Vindication  of  Natural  Society— 
an  ironical  criticism  of  Lord  Bolingbroke's  philosophy,  and  so 
exact  an  imitation  of  that  writer's  diction,  style  of  composition, 
and  philosophic  animus,  as  for  a  time  to  have  passed  for  a  gen- 
uine production  of  that  philosopher.  It  was  published  in  1756, 
and  elicited  a  very  general  admiration  of  its  author's  abilities. 

*  Lije  oj  Burke :  Jarnes  Prior,  Esq. 

467 


468  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

But  this  admiration  was  greatly  enhanced  when,  a  few  months 
afterwards,  Burke  gave  to  the  public  A  Philosophical  Inquiry 
into  the  Origin  of  our  Ideas  of  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful : — an 
essay  which,  not  to  quote  any  other  of  the  numerous  encomiums 
it  received,  drew  from  Dr.  Johnson,  so  parsimonious  of  praise, 
the  remark:  "Burke's  Essay  is  an  example  of  true  criticism." 

In  1759,  in  conjunction  with  the  publisher  Dodsley,  Burke 
originated  "  The  Annual  Register."  The  biographer  before 
quoted  remarks  of  this  periodical :  "  It  is  the  best  and  the  most 
comprehensive  of  all  the  periodical  works,  without  any  admix- 
ture of  their  trash,  or  their  frequent  tediousness  of  detail. 
Many  of  the  sketches  of  contemporary  history,  written  by  him- 
self or  from  his  immediate  dictation  for  about  thirty  years,  are 
not  merely  valuable  as  coming  from  such  a  pen,  but  masterly  in 
themselves;  and  in  the  estimation  of  many  competent  judges, 
are  not  likely  to  be  improved  by  any  future  historian." 

Passing  by  an  indefinite  term  of  service  in  Ireland  as  private 
secretary  to  the  Lord  Lieutenant's  secretary,  we  presently  meet 
Burke  entering  Parliament,  having  been  returned  in  1765  for 
the  borough  of  Wendover.  With  this  was  inaugurated  one  of 
the  most,  if  not  the  most,  illustrious  of  political  careers, — a 
career  ennobled  not  so  much  by  splendid  stations  as  by  eminent 
services.  The  principles  of  moral  and  political  wisdom  and 
integrity,  conceived  and  formulated  in  youth  and  early  man- 
hood, accompanied  and  guided  his  steps  through  thirty  years  of 
parliamentary  warfare  the  fiercest  and  most  trying.  Again  in 
1774  Burke  was  returned  to  parliament  from  Bristol,  which  city 
he  continued  to  represent  until  1780.  From  the  latter  date 
until  the  close  of  his  public  life  he  sat  for  the  borough  of  Malton. 

The  great  features  of  Burke's  parliamentary  career  were  his 
opposition  to  the  course  of  the  English  government  toward  the 
Colonies  both  before  and  during  the  American  revolution  ;  his 
advocacy  of  the  political  rights  of  the  Catholics  in  Ireland ; 
his  agitation  of  measures  of  economical  reform ;  his  denuncia- 
tion of  the  slave  trade;  his  exposure  of  the  iniquitous  misman- 
agement of  the  East  India  affairs  by  Warren  Hastings  ;  and  his 
.condemnation  of  the  principles  that  actuated  and  the  events 
that  characterised  the  French  Revolution.  His  speeches  in  fur- 
therance of  these  measuies  were,  at  the  time  of  their  delivery, 


BURKE.  469 


and  now  are,  regarded  in  point  of  information,  lucid  arrange- 
ment of  matter,  cogent  argument,  noble  sentiment,  force  and 
picturesqueness  of  language,  and  felicity  of  illustration,  as  un- 
paralleled in  the  annals  of  oratory. 

In  addition  to  these  great  legislative  efforts,  we  must  not 
omit  to  name  certain  elaborate  and  eloquent  pamphlets  which 
this  eminent  statesman  issued  from  time  to  time  :  such,  for  ex- 
ample, were  his  Reflections  on  the  French  Revolution,  An  Appeal 
from,  the  New  to  the  Old  Whigs,  and  Letters  on  a  Regicide  Peace. 

Burke  retired  from  parliament/in  1794,  and  was  succeeded 
there  for  a  brief  time  by  his  son.  An  extensive  correspondence 
with  eminent  politicians  and  scholar's,  and  an  occasional  pam- 
phlet, filled  up  for  the  greater  part  the  few  remaining  years  of 
his  life.  He  died  at  Beaconsfield,  July  9,  1797. 

The  Essay  on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful  furnishes  our  first 
extract. 

CONCERNING   SMALLNESS. 

In  speaking  of  the  magnitude  of  bodies  there  is  great  uncertainty,  because 
the  ideas  of  great  and  small  are  terms  almost  entirely  relative  to  the  species 
of  the  objects,  which  are  infinite.  It  is  true,  that  having  once  fixed  the 
species  of  any  object,  and  the  dimensions  common  in  the  individuals  of 
that  species,  we  may  observe  some  that  exceed,  and  some  that  fall  short  of, 
the  ordinary  standard:  those  which  greatly  exceed  are,  by  that  excess, 
provided  the  species  itself  be  not  very  small,  rather  great  and  terrible  than 
beautiful ;  but  as  in  the  animal  world,  and  in  a  good  measure  in  the  vege- 
table world  likewise,  the  qualities  that  constitute  beauty  may  possibly  be 
united  to  things  of  greater  dimensions;  when  they  are  so  united,  they  con- 
stitute a  species  something  different  both  from  the  sublime  and  beautiful, 
which  1  have  before  called  fine :  but  this  kind,  1  imagine,  has  not  such  a 
power  on  the  passions  either  as  vast  bodies  have  which  are  endued  with 
the  correspondent  qualities  of  the  sublime,  or  as  the  qualities  of  beauty 
have  when  united  in  a  small  object. 

The  affection  produced  by  large  bodies  adorned  with  the  spoils  of  beauty, 
is  a  tension  continually  relieved ;  which  approaches  to  the  nature  of  medi- 
ocrity. But  if  I  were  to  say  how  I  find  myself  affected  upon  such  occa- 
sions, I  should  say,  that  the  sublime  suffers  less  by  being  united  to  some  of 
the  qualities  of  beauty,  than  beauty  does  by  being  joined  to  greatness  of 
quality,  or  any  other  properties  of  the  sublime.  There  is  something  so 
over-ruling  in  whatever  inspires  us  with  awe,  in  all  things  which  belong 
ever  so  remotely  to  terror,  that  nothing  else  can  stand  in  their  presence. 
There  lie  the  qualities  of  beauty  either  dead  or  inoperative ;  or  at  most 
exerted  to  mollify  the  rigor  and  sternness  of  the  terror,  which  is  the  natural 
concomitant  of  greatness. 

Besides  the  extraordinary  great  in  every  species,  the  opposite  to  this,  the 

dwarfish  and  diminutive,  ought  to  be  considered.     Littleness,  merely  as 

such,  has  nothing  contrary  to  the  idea  of  beauty.     The  humming-bird,  both 

in  shape  and  coloring,  yields  to  none  of  the  winged  species,  of  which  it  is 

40 


470  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


the  least ;  and  perhaps  his  beauty  is  enhanced  by  his  smallness.  But  there 
are  animals,  which,  when  they  are  extremely  small,  are  rarely  (if  ever) 
beautiful.  There  is  a  dwarfish  size  of  men  and  women,  which  is  almost 
constantly  so  gross  and  massive  in  comparison  of  their  height,  that  they 
present  us  with  a  vefy  disagreeable  image.  But  should  a  man  be  found 
not  above  two  or  three  feet  high,  supposing  such  a  person  to  have  all  the 
parts  of  his  body  of  a  delicacy  suitable  to  such  a  size,  and  otherwise  endued 
with  the  common  qualities  of  other  beautiful  bodies,  1  am  pretty  well  con- 
vinced that  a  person  of  such  a  stature  might  be  considered  as  beautiful ; 
might  be  the  object  of  love ;  might  give  us  very  pleasing  ideas  on  viewing 
him.  The  only  thing  which  could  possibly  interpose  to  check  our  pleasure 
is,  that  such  creatures,  however  formed,  are  unusual,  and  are  often  there- 
fore considered  as  something  monstrous. 

The  large  and  gigantic,  though  very  compatible  with  the  sublime,  is  con- 
trary to  the  beautiful.  It  is  impossible  to  suppose  a  giant  the  object  of  love. 
When  we  let  our  imagination  loose  in  romance,  the  ideas  we  naturally  annex 
to  that  size  are  those  of  tyranny,  cruelty,  injustice,  and  every  tiling  horrid 
and  abominable.  We  paint  the  giant  ravaging  the  country,  plundering  the 
innocent  traveller,  and  afterwards  gorged  with  his  half-living  tiesh  :  such  are 
Polyphemus,  Cacus,  and  others,  who  make  so  great  a  figure  in  romances 
and  heroic  poems.  The  event  we  attend  to  with  the  greatest  satisfaction  is 
their  defeat  and  death. 

I  do  not  remember,  in  all  that  multitude  of  deaths  with  which  the  Iliad 
is  filled,  that  the  fall  of  any  man,  remarkable  for  his  great  stature  and 
strength,  touched  us  with  pity  ;  nor  does  it  appear  that  the  author,  so  well 
read  in  human  nature,  ever  intended  it  should.  It  is  Simoisius,  in  the  soft 
bloom  of  youth,  torn  from  his  parents,  who  tremble  for  a  courage  so  ill 
suited  to  his  strength ;  it  is  another  hurried  by  war  from  the  new  embraces 
of  his  bride,  young,  and  fair,  and  a  novice  to  the  field,  who  melts  us  by  his 
untimely  fate.  Achilles,  in  spite  of  the  many  qualities  of  beauty  which 
Homer  has  bestowed  on  his  outward  form,  and  the  many  great  virtues  with 
which  he  has  adorned  his  mind,  can  never  make  us  love  him. 

It  may  be  observed,  that  Homer  has  given  the  Trojans,  whose  fate  he  has 
designed  to  excite  our  compassion,  infinitely  more  of  the  amiable,  social 
virtues  than  he  has  distributed  among  the  Greeks.  With  regard  to  the 
Trojans,  the  passion  he  chooses  to  raise  is  pity ;  pity  is  a  passion  founded 
on  love ;  and  these  lesser,  and  if  1  may  say  domestic  virtues,  are  certainly 
the  most  amiable.  But  he  has  made  the  Greeks  far  their  superiors  in  poli- 
tic and  military  virtues.  The  councils  of  Priam  are  weak ;  the  army  of 
Hector  comparatively  feeble  ;  his  courage  far  below  that  of  Achilles.  Yet 
we  love  Priam  more  than  Agamemnon,  and  Hector  more  than  his  conqueror 
Achilles.  Admiration  is  the  passion  which  Homer  would  excite  in  favor 
of  the  Greeks,  and  he  has  done  it  by  bestowing  on  them  the  virtues  which 
have  but  little  to  do  with  love. 

Extract  from  a  speech  On  Conciliation  with  America,  delivered 
in  the  House  of  Commons  on  March  22,  1775. 

My  hold  of  the  colonies  is  in  the  close  affection  which  grows  from  com- 
mon names,  from  kindred  blood,  from  similar  privileges,  and  equal  protec- 
tion. These  are  ties,  which,  though  light  as  air,  are  as  strong  as  links  of 
iron.  Let  the  colonies  always  keep  the  idea  of  civil  rights  associated  with 
your  government ;  they  will  cling  and  grapple  to  you,  and  no  force  under 


BURKE.  471 


heaven  will  be  of  power  to  tear  them  from  their  allegiance.  But  let  it  be 
once  understood,  that  your  government  may  be  one  thing  and  their  privi- 
leges another ;  that  these  two  things  may  exist  without  any  mutual  rela- 
tion ;  the  cement  is  gone ;  the  cohesion  is  loosened ;  and  every  thing  hastens 
to  decay  and  dissolution.  As  long  as  you  have  the  wisdom  to  keep  the 
sovereign  authority  of  this  country  as  the  sanctuary  of  liberty,  the  sacred 
temple  consecrated  to  our  common  faith,  wherever  the  chosen  race  and  sons 
of  England  worship  freedom,  they  will  turn  their  faces  towards  you.  The 
more  they  multify  the  more  friends  you  will  have ;  the  more  ardently  they 
love  liberty  the  more  perfect  will  be  their  obedience.  Slavery  they  can 
have  anywhere.  It  is  a  weed  that  grows  in  every  soil.  They  may  have  it 
from  Spain,  they  may  have  it  from  Prussia.  But  until  you  become  lost  to 
all  feeling  of  your  true  interest  and  your  natural  dignity,  freedom  they  can 
have  from  none  but  you.  This  is  the  Commodity  of  price  of  which  you 
have  the  monopoly.  This  is  the  true  act  of  navigation  which  binds  you  to 
the  commerce  of  the  colonies,  and  through  them  secures  to  you  the  wealth 
of  the  world.  Deny  them  this  participation  of  freedom,  and  you  break 
that  sole  bond  which  originally  made,  and  must  still  preserve,  the  unity  of 
the  empire.  Do  not  entertain  so  weak  an  imagination,  as  that  your  registers 
and  your  bonds,  your  affidavits  and  your  sufferances,  your  cockets  and  your 
clearances,  are  what  form  the  great  securities  of  your  commerce.  Do  not 
dream  that  your  letters  of  office  and  your  instructions,  and  your  suspending 
clauses  are  the  things  that  hold  together  the  great  contexture  of  this  mys- 
terious whole.  These  things  do  not  make  your  government.  Dead  instru- 
ments, passive  tools  as  they  are,  it  is  the  spirit  of  the  English  communion 
that  gives  all  their  life  and  efficacy  to  them.  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  English 
constitution,  which,  infused  through  the  mighty  mass,  pervades,  feeds, 
unites,  invigorates,  vivifies,  every  part  of  the  empire,  even  down  to  the 
minutest  member. 

Is  it  not  the  same  virtue  which  does  everything  for  us  here  in  England  ? 
Do  you  imagine  then  that  it  is  the  land  tax  which  raises  your  revenue  ? 
that  it  is  the  annual  vote  in  the  committee  of  supply. which  gives  you  your 
army  ?  or  that  it  is  the  mutiny  bill  which  inspires  it  with  bravery  and  dis- 
cipline ?  No !  surely  no !  It  is  the  love  of  the  people ;  it  is  their  attach- 
ment to  their  government  from  the  sense  of  the  deep  stake  the£  have  in 
such  a  glorious  institution,  which  gives  you  your  army  and  your  navy,  and 
infuses  into  both  that  liberal  obedience,  without  which  your  army  would  be 
a  base  rabble,  and  your  navy  nothing  but  rotten  timber. 

All  this,  I  know  well  enough,  will  sound  wild  and  chimerical  to  the  pro- 
fane herd  of  those  vulgar  and  mechanical  politicians,  who  have  no  place 
among  us,  a  sort  of  people  who  think  nothing  exists  but  what  is  gross  and 
material ;  and  who  therefore,  far  from  being  qualified  to  be  directors  of  the 
great  movement  of  empire,  are  not  fit  to  turn  a  wheel  in  the  machine.  But 
to  men  truly  initiated  and  rightly  taught,  these  ruling  and  master  princi- 
ples, which,  in  the  opinion  of  such  men  as  I  have  mentioned,  have  no  sub- 
stantial existence,  are  in  truth  everything  and  are  all  in  all.  Magnanimity 
in  politics  is  not  seldom  the  truest  wisdom ;  and  a  great  empire  and  little 
minds  go  ill  together.  If  we  are  conscious  of  our  situation,  and  glow  with 
zeal  to  fill  our  place  as  becomes  our  station  and  ourselves,  we  ought  to 
auspicate  all  our  public  proceedings  on  America  with  the  old  warning  of 
the  church,  Sursum  corda  !  We  ought  to  elevate  our  minds  to  the  greatness 
of  that  trust  to  which  the  order  of  Providence  has  called  us.  By  adverting 
to  the  dignity  of  this  high  calling,  our  ancestors  have  turned  a  savage 


472  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

wilderness  into  a. glorious  empire;  and  have  made  the  most  extensive,  and 
the  only  honorable  conquests ;  not  by  destroying-,  but  by  promoting,  the 
wealth,  the  number,  the  happiness,  of  the  human  race.  Let  us  get  an 
American  revenue  as  we  have  got  an  American  empire.  English  privi- 
leges have  made  it  all  that  it  is.  English  privileges  alone  will  make  it  all 
it  can  be. 

Extract  from  a  Speech  on  the  Nabob  of  Arcot's  Debts,  delivered 
in  the  House  of  Commons,  February  28,  1785. 

When  at  length  Hyder  Ali  found  that  he  had  to  do  with  men  who  either 
would  sign  no  convention,  or  whom  no  treaty  and  no  signature  could  bind, 
and  who  were  the  determined  enemies  of'  human  intercourse  itself,  he 
decreed  to  make  the  country  possessed  by  these  incorrigible  and  predesti- 
nated criminals  a  memorable  example  to  mankind.  He  resolved,  in  the 
gloomy  recesses  of  a  mind  capacious  of  such  things,  to  leave  the  whole 
Carnatic  an  everlasting  monument  of  vengeance;  and  to  put  perpetual 
desolation  as  a  barrier  between  him  and  those  against  whom  the  faith  which 
holds  the  moral  elements  of  the  world  together  was  no  protection.  lie 
became  at  length  so  confident  of  his  force,  so  collected  in  his  might,  that 
he  made  no  secret  whatsoever  of  his  dreadful  resolution. 

Having  terminated  his  disputes  with  every  enemy,  and  every  rival,  who 
buried  their  mutual  animosities  in  their  common  detestation  against  the 
creditors  of  the  nabob  of  Arcot,  he  drew  from  every  quarter  whatever  a 
savage  ferocity  could  add  to  his  new  rudiments  in  the  arts  of  destruction ; 
and  compounding  all  the  materials  of  fury,  havoc,  and  desolation  into  one 
black  cloud,  he  hung  for  a  while  on  the  declivities  of  the  mountains. 
Whilst  the  authors  of  all  these  evils  were  idly  and  stupidly  gazing  on  this 
menacing  meteor,  which  blackened  all  the  horizon,  it  suddenly  burst,  and 
poured  down  the  uhole  of  its  contents  upon  the  plains  of  the  Carnatic. 
Then  ensued  a  scene  of  woe,  the  like  of  which  no  eye  had  seen,  no  heart 
conceived,  and  which  no  tongue  can  adequately  tell.  All  the  horrors  cf 
war  before  known  or  heard  of  were  mercy  to  that  new  havoc.  A  storm  of 
universal  fire  blasted  every  field,  consumed  every  house,  destroyed  every 
temple.  The  miserable  inhabitants  flying  from  their  flaming  villages,  in 
part  were  slaughtered  ;  others,  without  regard  to  sex,  to  age,  to  the  respect 
of  rank,  or  sacredness  of  function ;  fathers  torn  from  children,  husbands 
from  wives,  enveloped  in  a  whirlwind  of  cavalry,  and  amidst  the  goading 
spears  of  drivers,  and  the  trampling  of  pursuing  horses,  were  swept  into 
captivity,  in  an  unknown  and  hostile  land.  Those  who  were  able  to  evade 
this  tempest,  fled  to  the  walled  cities.  But  escaping  from  fire,  sword,  and 
exile,  they  fell  into  the  jaws  of  famine. 

The  alms  of  the  settlement,  in  this  dreadful  exigency,  were  certainly 
liberal ;  and  all  was  done  by  charity,  that  private  charity  could  do :  but  it 
was  a  people  in  beggary  ;  it  was  a  nation  which  stretched  out  its  hands  for 
food.  For  months  together  these  creatures  of  sufferance,  whose  very  excess 
and  luxury  in  their  most  plenteous  days  had  fallen  short  of  the  allowance 
of  our  austerest  fasts,  silent,  patient,  resigned,  without  sedition  or  disturb- 
ance, almost  without  complaint,  perished  by  an  hundred  a  day  in  the  streets 
of  Madras ;  every  day  seventy  at  least  laid  their  bodies  in  the  streets,  or  on 
the  glacis  of  Tanjore,  and  expired  of  famine  in  the  granary  of  India.  I 
was  going  to  awake  your  justice  towards  this  unhappy  part  of  our  fellow- 


BURKE.  473 


citizens,  by  bringing  before  you  some  of  the  circumstances  of  this  plague  of 
hunger.  Of  all  the  calamities  which  beset  and  waylay  the  life  of  man,  this 
comes  the  nearest  to  our  heart,  and  is  that  wherein  the  proudest  of  us  all 
feels  himself  to  be  nothing  more  than  he  is:  but  I  find  myself  unable 
to  manage  it  with  decorum ;  these  details  are  of  a  species  of  horror  so 
nauseous  and  disgusting ;  they  are  so  degrading  to  the  sufferer  and  to  the 
hearers;  they  are  so  humiliating  to  human  nature  itself,  that,  on  better 
thoughts,  I  find  it  more  advisable  to  throw  a  pall  over  this  hideous  object, 
and  to  leave  it  to  your  general  conceptions. 

Peroration  of  Burke's  great  speech  on  The  Impeachment  of 
Warren  Hastings,  delivered  before  the  High  Court  of  Parlia- 
ment, in  February,  1788. 

In  the  name  of  the  Commons  of  England,  I  charge  all  this  villany  upon 
Warren  Hastings,  in  this  last  moment  of  my  application  to  you. 

My  lords,  what  is  it  that  we  want  here  to  a  great  act  of  national  justice  ? 
Do  we  want  a  cause,  my  lords  ?  You  have  the  cause  of  oppressed  princes, 
of  undone  women  of  the  first  rank,  of  desolate  provinces,  and  of  wasted 
kingdoms. 

Do  you  want  a  criminal,  my  lords  ?  When  was  there'  so  much  iniquity 
ever  laid  to  the  charge  of  any  one  ?*  No,  my  lords,  you  must  not  look  to 
punish  any  other  such  delinquent  from  India.  Warren  Hastings  has  not 
left  substance  enough  in  India  to  nourish  such  another  delinquent. 

My  lords,  is  it  a  prosecutor  you  want  ?  You  have  before  you  the  Com- 
mons of  Great  Britain  as  prosecutors,  and  I  believe,  my  lords,  that  the  sun 
in  his  beneficent  progress  round  the  world  does  not  behold  a  more  glorious 
sight  than  that  of  men,  separated  from  a  remote  people  by  the  material 
bounds  and  barriers  of  nature,  united  by  the  bond  of  a  moral  and  social 
community — all  the  Commons  of  England  resenting  as  their  own  the  indig- 
nities and  cruelties  that  are  offered  to  all  the  people  of  India. 

Do  we  want  a  tribunal  ?  My  lords,  no  example  of  antiquity,  nothing  in 
the  modern  world,  nothing  in  the  range  of  human  imagination,  can  supply 
us  with  a  tribunal  like  this.  My  lords,  here  we  see  virtually  in  the  mind's 
eye  that  sacred  majesty  of  the  crown,  under  whose  authority  we  sit,  and 
whose  powers  you  exercise.  We  see  in  that  invisible  authority,  what  we 
all  feel  in  reality  and  life,  the  beneficent  powers  and  protecting' justice  of 
his  majesty.  We  have  here  the  heir-apparent  to  the  crown,  such  as  the 
fond  wishes  of  the  people  of  England  wish  an  heir-apparent  of  the  crown 
to  be.  We  have  here  all  the  branches  of  the  royal  family  in  a  situation 
between  majesty  and  subjection,  between  the  sovereign  and  the  subject, 
offering  a  pledge  in  that  situation  for  the  support  of  the  rights  of  the  crown 
and  the  liberties  of  the  }-eople,  both  which  extremities  they  touch.  My 
lords,  we  have  a  great  hereditary  peerage  here — those  who  have  their  own 
honor,  the  honor  of  their  ancestors  and  their  posterity  to  guard,  and  who 
will  justify,  as  they  always  have  justified,  that  provision  in  the  constitution 
by  which  justice  is  made  an  hereditary  office.  My  lords,  we  have  here  a 
new  nobility,  who  have  risen  and  exalted  themselves  by  various  merits,  by 
great  military  services,  which  have  extended  the  fame  of  this  country 
from  the  rising  to  the  setting  sun ;  we  have  those  who,  by  various  civil 
merits  and  various  civil  talents,  have  been  exalted  to  a  situation  which 
40* 


47 4   .          MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


they  well  deserve,  and  in  which  they  will  justify  the  favor  of  their  sove- 
reign and  the  good  opinion  of  their  fellow-subjects,  and  make  them  rejoice 
to  see  those  virtuous  characters,  that  were  the  other  day  upon  a  level  with 
them,  now  exalted  above  them  in  rank,  but  feeling  with  them  in  sympathy 
what  they  felt  in  common  with  them  before.  We  have  persons  exalted 
from  the  practice  of  the  law — from  the  place  in  which  they  administerel 
high  though  subordinate  justice— to  a  seat  here,  to  enlighten  with  their 
knowledge  and  to  strengthen  with  their  votes  those  principles  which  have 
distinguished  the  courts  in  which  they  have  presided. 

My  lords,  you  have  here  also  the  lights  of  our  religion ;  you  have  the 
bishops  of  England.  My  lords,  you  have  the  true  image  of  the  primitive 
church  in  its  ancient  form,  in  its  ancient  ordinances,  purified  from  the 
superstitions  and  the  vices  which  a  long  succession  of  ages  will  bring  upon 
the  best  institutions.  You  have  the  representatives  of  that  religion  which 
says  that  their  God  is  love,  that  the  very  vital  spirit  of  their  institution  is 
charity — a  religion  which  so  much  hates  oppression,  that  when  the  God 
whom  we  adore  appeared  in  human  form,  he  did  not  appear  in  a  form  of 
greatness  and  majesty,  but  in  sympathy  with  the  lowest  of  the  people,  and 
thereby  made  it  a  firm  and  ruling  principle  that  their  welfare  was  the 
object  of  all  government,  since  the  person  who  was  the  master  of  nature 
chose  to  appear  Himself  in  a  subordinate  situation.  These  are  the  con- 
siderations which  influence  them,  which  animate  them,  and  will  animate 
them,  against  all  oppression,  knowing  that  He  who  is  called  first  among 
them  and  first  among  us  all,  both  of  the  flock  that  is  fed  and  of  those  who 
feed  it,  made  Himself  the  servant  of  all. 

My  lords,  these  are  the  securities  which  we  have  in  all  the  constituent 
parts  of  the  body  of  this  house.  We  know  them,  we  reckon,  rest  upon 
them,  and  commit  safely  the  interests  of  India  and  of  humanity  into  your 
hands.  Therefore  it  is  with  confidence  that,  ordered  by  the  Commons, 

I  impeach  WTarren  Hastings,  Esq.,  of  high  crimes  and  misdemeanors. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  all  the  Commons  of  Great  Britain  in 
Parliament  assembled,  whose  parliamentary  trust  he  has  betrayed. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  Commons  of  Great  Britain,  whose 
national  character  he  has  dishonored. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  people  of  India,  whose  laws,  rights, 
and  liberties  he  has  subverted,  whose  properties  he  has  destroyed,  whose 
country  he  has  laid  waste  and  desolate. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  and  by  virtue  of  those  eternal  laws  of  justice 
which  he  has  violated. 

I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  human  nature  itself,  which  he  has  cruelly 
outraged,  injured,  and  oppressed  in  both  sexes,  in  every  age,  rank,  situation, 
and  condition  of  life. 

Our  final  extract  is  from  Btirke's  Pamphlet  on  the  French 
Revolution. 

It  is  now  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  since  I  saw  the  queen  of  France,  then 
the  dauphiness,  at  Versailles ;  and  surely  never  lighted  on  this  orb,  which 
she  hardly  seemed  to  touch,  a  more  delightful  vision.  I  saw  her  just  above 
the  horizon,  decorating  and  cheering  the  elevated  sphere  she  had  just  began 


BURKE.  475 


to  move  in  ;  glittering,  like  the  morning  star,  full  of  life,  and  splendor,  and 
joy.  Oh  !  what  a  revolution  !  and  what  a  heart  must  1  have,  to  contemplate 
without  emotion  that  elevation  and  that  fall !  Little  did  I  dream,  when  she 
added  titles  of  veneration  to  those  of  enthusiastic,  distant,  respectful  love, 
that  she  should  ever  be  obliged  to  carry  the  sharp  antidote  against  disgrace 
concealed  in  that  bosom ;  little  did  I  dream  that  J  should  have  lived  to  see 
such  disasters  fallen  upon  her  in  a  nation  of  gallant  men,  in  a  nation  of  men 
of  honor  and  of  cavaliers.  I  thought  ten  thousand  swords  must  have  leaped 
from  their  scabbards  to  avenge  even  a  look  that  threatened  her  with  insult. 
But  the  age  of  chivalry  is  gone.  That  of  sophisters,  economists,  and  calcu- 
lators has  succeeded ;  and  t,he  glory  of  Europe  is  extinguished  forever. 
Kever,  never  more,  shall  we  behold  that  genuine  royalty  to  rank  and  sex, 
that  proud  submission,  that  dignified  obedience,  that  subordination  of  the 
heart  which  kept  alive,  even  in  servitude  itself,  the  spirit  of  an  exalted  free- 
dom. The  unbought  grace  of  life,  the  cheap  defense  of  nations,  the  muse 
of  manly  sentiment  and  heroic  enterprise  is  gone.  It  is  gone,  that  sensi- 
bility of  principle,  that  charity  of  honor,  which  felt  a  stain  like  a  wound, 
which  inspired  courage  whilst  it  mitigated  ferocity,  which  ennobled  what- 
ever it  touched,  and  under  which  vice  itself  lost  half  its  evils,  by  losing  all 
its  grossness. 

*  *  %  *  *  #  #  # 

All  the  pleasing  illusions  which  made  power  gentle,  and  obedience  liberal, 
which  harmonized  the  different  shades  of  life,  and  which,  by  a  bland  assimi- 
lation, incorporated  into  politics  the  sentiments  which  beautify  and  soften 
private  society,  are  to  be  dissolved  by  this  new  conquering  empire  of  light 
and  reason.  All  the  decent  drapery  of  life  is  to  be  rudely  torn  off.  All  the 
superadded  ideas,  furnished  from  the  wardrobe  of  a  moral  imagination, 
which  the  heart  owns  and  the  understanding  ratifies,  as  necessary  to  cover 
the  defects  of  our  naked  shivering  nature,  and  to  raise  it  to  dignity  in  our 
own  estimation,  are  to  be  exploded  as  ridiculous,  absurd,  and  antiquated 
fashion. 


"  Burke's  eloquence  will  be  found  less  remarkable  for  the  pre- 
dominance of  any  one  faculty  of  mind,  than  for  that  distinguishing 
feature,  a  combination  of  them  all.  This  peculiarity  has  so  much 
confused  the  judgment  of  many,  and  not  mean  critics,  as  to  give 
rise  to  contradictory  opinions.  Some  represent  him  as  addressing 
the  passions  and  the  imagination  more  than  the  understanding; 
others  of  overwhelming  his  subject  by  pouring  in  argument  more 
than  enough.  Some  will  have  it  that  he  deals  in  that  bold,  flow- 
ing, loose,  yet  powerful  style  which  they  term  licentious ;  others 
say  he  is  often  abrupt  and  severe.  Some  consider  he  is  too  fond 
of  wit,  ornament,  and  lighter  matter;  others  see  him  too  meta- 
physical and  refined,  and  too  much  above  the  intellectual  level  of 
the  assembly  he  addressed,  though  that  assembly  was  the  House 
of  Commons.  Some  again  have  honestly  confessed,  that  after 
much  meditation  they  can  make  nothing  at  all  of  him— that  his 
qualities  contradict  each  other,  and  that  his  powers  and  his  mode 
of  wielding  them  are  equally  indescribable. 


476  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


"All  these  opinions  cannot  be  true.  The  confusion  perhaps 
arises  from  each  viewing  him  in  the  light  which  strikes  most  for- 
cibly at  the  moment ;  from  not  attending  so  much  to  the  conjoined 
effect  of  the  whole  of  his  argument  as  to  single  parts,  each  of  which 
is  so  striking  in  itself  as  to  appear  a  principal  in  the  cause  in  which 
it  is  embodied  only  as  an  auxiliary. 

"As  an  accuser,  his  power  was  terrific.  Once  under  the  influ- 
ence of  excited  feelings,  and  possessed  of  a  vocabulary  unequalled 
for  force  and  comprehensiveness,  he  exhausts  the  whole  compass 
of  the  English  language  in  fierceness  of  invective  and  bitterness  of 
censure.  Even  Junius,  with  all  the  advantages  of  indiscriminate 
personality,  private  scandal,  and  the  mask  under  which  he  fought, 
which  last  left  him  free  in  the  use  of  terms  of  censure,  has  not 
exceeded  him  in  severity,  while  he  falls  infinitely  short  in  reach 
of  thought,  command  of  language,  energy  of  expression,  and 
variety  of  reproach.  Junius  is  more  pungent  in  accusation,  Burke 
more  powerful ;  Junius  imparts  the  idea  of  keenness,  Burke  that 
of  overpowering  force;  Junius  of  possessing  power  to  a  certain 
degree  circumscribed,  Burke  of  a  magnitude  nearly  boundless; 
Junius  assaults  his  victim  with  a  razor,  Burke  with  a  sledge-ham- 
mer; and  repeats  his  blows  so  often  and  in  so  many  different  modes, 
that  few  can  again  recognize  the  carcass  he  has  once  taken  it  in 
hand  to  mangle."* 

*  Lije  of  Edmund  Burke :  Jame  •  Prior,  Esq.,  F.  S.  A. 


SAMUEL    JOHNSON. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON  was  born  at  Litchfield,  September  7,  1709. 
The  few  months  he  spent,  when  about  sixteen  years  old,  on  a 
visit  to  his  cousin  Cornelius  Ford,  seem  to  have  given  a  greater 
impulse  to  his  studies,  and  to  have  exercised  a  larger  control 
over  his  after  literary  life,  than  the  eight  years  previously 
passed  in  the  free  school  of  his  native  town.  At  nineteen,  as 
an  assistant  of  a  young  gentleman,  he  entered  the  University  of 
Oxford  a  commoner.  "  Ethics,  theology,  and  classic  literature 
were  his  favorite  studies.  He  discovered,  notwithstanding, 
early  symptoms  of  that  wandering  disposition  of  mind  which 
adhered  to  him  to  the  end  of  his  life.  His  reading  was  by  fits 
and  starts,  undirected  to  any  particular  science.  General  phi- 
lology, agreeably  to  his  cousin  Ford's  advice,  was  the  object  of 
his  ambition.  He  received,  at  that  time,  an  early  impression 
of  piety,  and  a  taste  for  the  best  authors,  ancient  and  modern. 
It  may,  notwithstanding,  be  questioned  whether,  except  his 
Bible,  he  ever  read  a  book  entirely  through."  * 

In  1731,  Johnson  returned  home,  having  completed  a  resi- 
dence of  three  years  at  the  university ;  when,  poor  but  cour- 
ageous, he  began  life  for  himself.  From  under-master  of  a 
grammar-school  he  passed  to  translator  of  a  voyage  to  Abys- 
sinia, and  thence,  several  futile  plans  aside,  to  matrimony  with 
widow  Porter,  the  possessor  of  some  eight  hundred  pounds ; 
terminating  the  first  six  years  of  his  independent  struggles  with 
an  abortive  attempt  at  founding  an  academy  for  the  education 
of  young  gentlemen. 

In  1737,  accompanied  by  one  of  the  seven  or  eight  students 
of  his  late  academy — David  Garrick,  afterwards  the  famous 
actor — he  went  to  London  with  Irene,  a  tragedy,  in  hand,  as  his 
whole  literary  capital.  Even  this  the  indifference  of  managers 

*  Essay  on  the  Life  and  Genius  of  Dr.  Johnson :  Arthur  Murphy,  Esq. 

477 


478  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

compelled  him  to  lay  up  in  a  napkin  for  twelve  years ;  when 
Garrick,  himself  then  come  to  eminence,  brought  it  out  at 
Drury-Lane  theatre.  The  retirement  from  the  city  of  a  beloved 
and  somewhat  talented,  but  dissipated,  associate,  Richard  Sav- 
age, suggested  to  Johnson  his  poem  called  London,  which  was 
published  in  1738,  and  for  which  he  received  ten  guineas.  In 
1744,  he  still  further  remembered  his  friend  in  his  Life  of  /Savage. 

For  two  years  from  1740,  Johnson  wrote  the  parliamentary 
speeches  for  the  "  Gentleman's  Magazine  " — those  eloquent, 
logical,  and  splendid  compositions,  which  at  the  time  of  their 
production  passed  for  the  genuine  utterances  of  the  men  to 
whom  they  were  imputed.  Literary  drudgery,  for  the  most 
part,  then  wasted  away  the  years  until  1750,  when  there 
appeared  the  first  number  of  a  semi-weekly  paper  called  the 
Itambler,  which  for  the  next  two  years  was  not  only  edited,  but 
almost  wholly  written  by  Johnson  himself.  "  The  whole  num- 
ber of  essays  amounted  to  two  hundred  and  eight.  Addison's, 
in  the  '  Spectator,'  are  more  in  number,  but  not  half  in  point  of 
quantity  :  Addison  was  not  bound  to  publish  on  stated  days ; 
he  could  watch  the  ebb  and  flow  of  his  genius,  and  send  his 
paper  to  the  press  when  his  own  taste  was  satisfied.  Johnson's 
case  was  very  different.  He  wrote  singly  and  alone.  In  the 
whole  progress  of  the  work  he  did  not  receive  more  than  ten 
essays."* 

While  this  admirable  periodical  was  publishing,  our  author 
was  also  engaged  upon  a  Dictionary  of  the  English  Language. 
This  arduous  task  he  completed  in  1754,  giving  it  to  the  public 
the  following  year.  Work  of  a  desultory  and  varied  character 
as  an  essayist  and  reviewer  occupied  the  four  years  that  fol- 
lowed. "  He  resigned  himself  to  indolence,  took  no  exercise, 
rose  about  two,  and  then  received  the  visits  of  his  friends. 
Authors  long  since  forgotten  waited  on  him  as  their  oracle,  and 
he  gave  responses  in  the  chair  of  criticism.  He  believed  that 
he  could  give  a  better  history  of  Grub-street  than  any  man  liv- 
ing. His  house  was  filled  with  a  succession  of  visitors  till  four 
or  five  in  the  evening.  During  the  whole  time  he  presided  at 
his  tea-table."* 

*  Arthur  Murphy's  Essay. 


JOHNSON.  479 


In  1758  appeared  our  author's  second  literary  periodical,  thex 
Idler,  which,  like  its  predecessor,  was  restricted  to  the  brief 
period  of  a  two-years'  existence.  Neither  of  these  ventures 
proved  popular  or  remunerative.  In  1759,  pressed  for  means, 
Johnson  conveyed  to  a  bookseller  for  one  hundred  pounds 
that  elegant  and  sublime  work,  Rasselas,  Prince  of  Abyssinia. 
Three  years  of  poverty  and  idleness  succeed.  From  the  former 
the  king's  pension  of  three  hundred  pounds  a  year  then  relieved 
him ;  and  the  famous  Literary  Club,  he  assisted  in  forming 
about  the  same  time,  afforded  rare  diversion  for  his  mind. 

The  products  of  the  next  seventeen  years  were  an  edition  of 
Shakespeare,  several  political  tracts,  and  an  Account  of  a  Tour 
to  the  Western  Islands  of  Scotland.  Then,  in  1779,  appeared  the 
first  of  a  series  of  biographical  and  critical  sketches,  entitled  Lives 
of  the  Poets.  The  work  was  completed  in  1781,  and  closed  the 
literary  career  of  our  author.  Paralysis,  followed  by  dropsy 
and  asthma,  ended  his  days  on  the  13th  of  December,  1784. 

The  following  extracts,  illustrative  of  Johnson's  different 
styles  of  composition,  are  taken  from  The  Rambler : 

Tuesday,  November  6, 1750. 

There«is  no  temper  so  generally  indulged  as  hope ;  other  passions  operate 
by  starts  on  particular  occasions,  or  in  certain  parts  of  life ;  but  hope  begins 
with  the  first  power  of  comparing  our  actual  with  our  possible  state,  and 
attends  us  through  every  stage  and  period,  always  urging  us  forward  to  new 
acquisitions,  and  holding  out  some  distant  blessing  to  our  view,  promising 
us  either  relief  from  pain,  or  increase  of  happiness. 

Hope  is  necessary  in  every  condition.  The  miseries  of  poverty,  of  sick- 
ness, of  captivity,  would,  without  this  comfort,  be  insupportable ;  nor  does 
it  appear  that  the  happiest  lot  of  terrestrial  existence  can  set. us  above  the 
want  of  this  general  blessing ;  or  that  life,  when  the  gifts  of  nature  and  of 
fortune  are  accumulated  upon  it,  would  not  still  be  wretched,  were  it  not 
elevated  and  delighted  by  the  expectation  of  some  new  possession,  of  some 
enjoyment  yet  behind,  by  which  the  wish  shall  be  at  last  satisfied,  and  the 
heart  filled  up  to  its  utmost  extent.  Hope  is,  indeed,  very  fallacious,  and 
promises  what  it  seldom  gives ;  but  its  promises  are  more  valuable  than 
the  gifts  of  fortune,  and  it  seldom  frustrates  us  without  assuring  us  of  rec- 
ompensing the  delay  by  a  greater  bounty. 

I  was  musing  on  this  strange  inclination  which  every  man  feels  to  deceive 
himself,  and  considering  the  advantages  and  danger  proceeding  from  this 
gay  prospect  of  futurity,  when,  falling  asleep,  on  a  sudden  I  found  myself 
placed  in  a  garden,  of  which  my  sight  could  descry  no  limits.  Every  scene 
about  me  was  gay  and  gladsome,  light  with  sunshine,  and  fragrant  with 
perfumes ;  the  ground  was  painted  with  all  the  variety  of  spring,  and  all 
the  choir  of  nature  was  singing  in  the  groves.  When  1  had  recovered  from 
the  tirst  raptures,  with  which  the  confusion  of  pleasure  had  for  a  time 


480  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

entranced  me,  I  began  to  take  a  particular  and  deliberate  view  of  this  delight- 
ful region.  1  then  perceived  that  I  had  yet  higher  gratifications  to  expect, 
and  that  at  a  small  distance  from  me,  there  were  brighter  flowers,  clearer 
fo.mtains,  and  more  lofty  groves,  where  the  birds,  which  I  yet  heard  but 
faintly,  were  exerting  all  the  power  of  melody.  The  trees  about  me  were 
beautiful  with  verdure  and  fragrant  with  blossoms ,  but  1  was  tempted  to 
leave  them  by  the  sight  of  ripe  fruits,  which  seemed  to  hang  only  to  be 
plucked.  I  therefore  walked  heartily  forwards,  but  found,  as  I  proceeded, 
that  the  colors  of  the  field  faded  at  my  approach,  the  fruit  fell  before  I 
reached  it,  the  birds  flew,  still  singing  before  me,  and  though  I  pressed 
onward  with  great  celerity,  1  was  still  in  sight  of  pleasures  of  which  I 
could  not  yet  gain  the  possession,  and  which  seemed  to  mock  my  diligence, 
and  to  retire  as  1  advanced. 

Though  I  was  confounded  with  so  many  alternations  of  joy  and  grief,  I 
vet  persisted  to  go  forward,  in  hopes  that  these  fugitive  delights  would  in 
time  be  overtaken.  At  length  I  saw  an  innumerable  multitude  of  every 
age  and  sex,  who  seemed  all  to  partake  of  some  general  felicity ;  for  every 
cheek  was  flushed  with  confidence,  and  every  eye  sparkled  with  eagerness : 
yet  each  appeared  to  have  some  particular  and  secret  pleasure,  and  very 
few  were  willing  to  communicate  their  intentions,  or  extend  their  concern 
beyond  themselves.  Most  of  them  seemed,  by  the  rapidity  of  their  motion, 
too  busy  to  gratify  the  curiosity  of  a  stranger,  and  therefore  I  was  content 
for  a  while  to  gaze  upon  them,  without  interrupting  them  with  troublesome 
inquiries.  At  last  1  observed  one  man  worn  with  time,  and  unable  to 
straggle  in  the  crowd :  and  therefore,  supposing  him  more  at  leisure,  I 
began  to  accost  him ;  but  he  turned  from  me  with  anger,  and  told  me  he 
must  not  be  disturbed,  for  the  great  hour  of  projection  was  now  come  when 
Mercury  should  loose  his  wings,  and  slavery  should  no  longer  dig  the  mine 
for  gold. 

I  left  him,  and  attempted  another,  whose  softness  of  mien,  and  easy 
movement,  gave  me  reason  to  hope  for  a  more  agreeable  reception ;  but  he 
told  me  with  a  low  bow,  that  nothing  would  make  him  more  happy  than 
an  opportunity  of  serving  me,  which  he  could  not  now  want,  for  a  place 
which  he  had  been  twenty  years  soliciting  would  be  soon  vacant.  From  him 
I  had  recourse  to  the  next,  who  was  departing  in  haste  to  take  possession 
of  the  estate  of  an  uncle,  who  by  the  course  of  nature  could  not  live  long. 
He  that  followed  was  preparing  to  dive  for  treasures  in  a  new-invented  bell ; 
and  another  was  on  the  point  of  discovering  the  longitude. 

Being  thus  rejected  wheresoever  I  applied  myself  for  information,  I 
began  to  imagine  it  best  to  desist  from  inquiry,  and  try  what  my  own  obser- 
vation could  discover :  but  seeing  a  young  man,  gay  and  thoughtless,  I 
resolved  upon  one  more  experiment,  and  was  informed  that  I  was  in  the 
garden  of  Hope,  the  daughter  of  Desire,  and  that  all  those  whom  I  saw 
tumultuously  bustling  round  me  were  incited  by  the  promises  of  Hope,  and 
hastening  to  seize  the  gifts  which  she  held  in  her  hand. 

I  turned  my  sight  upward,  and  saw  a  goddess  in  the  bloom  of  youth  sit- 
ting on  a  throne;  around  her  lay  all  the  gifts  of  fortune,  and  all  the  bless- 
ings of  life  were  spread  abroad"  to  view ;  she  had  a  perpetual  gayety  of 
aspect,  and  every  one  imagined  that  her  smile,  which  was  impartial  and 
general,  was  directed  to  himself,  and  triumphed  in  his  own  superiority  to 
others,  who  had  conceived  the  same  confidence  from  the  same  mistake. 

I  then  mounted  an  eminence,  from  which  I  had  a  more  extensive  view 


JOHNSON.  481 


of  the  whole  place,  and  could  with  less  perplexity  consider  the  different 
conduct  of  the  crowds  that  filled  it.  From  this  station  I  observed  that  the 
entrance  into  the  garden  of  Hope  was  by  two  gates,  one  of  which  was  kept 
by  Reason,  and  the  other  by  Fancy.  Reason  was  stirly  and  scrupulous,  and 
seldom  turned  the  key  without  many  interrogations,  and  long  hesitation; 
but  Fancy  was  a  kind  and  gentle  portress — she  held  her  gate  wide  open, 
and  welcomed  all  equally  to  the  district  under  her  superintendency :  so 
that  the  passage  was  crowded  by  all  those  who  either  feared  the  examina- 
tion of  Reason,  or  had  been  rejected  by  her. 

From  the  gate  of  Reason  there  was  a  way  to  the  throne  of  Hope,  by  a 
craggy,  slippery,  and  winding  path,  called  the  Strait  of  Difficulty,  which 
those  who  entered  by  permission  of  the  gvrard  endeavored  to  climb.  But 
though  they  surveyed  the  way  very  cheerfully  before  they  began  to  rise, 
and  marked  out  the  several  stages  of  their  progress,  they  commonly  found 
unexpected  obstacles,  and  were  obliged  frequently  to  stop  on  the  sudden, 
where  they  imagined  the  way  plain  and  even.  A  thousand  intricacies 
embarrassed  them,  a  thousand  slips  threw  them  back,  and  a  thousand  pit- 
falls impeded  their  advance.  So  formidable  were  the  dangers,  and  so  fre- 
quent the  miscarriages,  that  many  returned  from  the  first  attempt,  and  many 
fainted  in  the  midst  of  the  way,  and  only  a  very  small  number  were  led  up 
to  the  summit  of  Hope,  by  the  hand  of  Fortitude.  Of  these  few  the 
greater  part,  when  they  had  obtained  the  gift  which  Hope  had  promised 
them,  regretted  the  labor  which  it  cost,  and  felt  in  their  success  the  regret 
of  disappointment ;  the  rest  retired  with  their  prize,  and  were  led  by  Wis- 
dom to  the  bowers  of  Content. 

Turning  then  towards  the  gate  of  Fancy,  I  could  find  no  way  to  the  seat 
of  Hope ;  but  though  she  sat  full  in  view,  and  held  out  her  gifts  with  an 
air  of  invitation,  which  filled  every  heart  with  rapture,  the  mountain  was, 
on  that  side  inaccessibly  steep,  but  so  channelled  and  shaded,  that  none 
perceived  the  impossibility  of  ascending  it,  but  each  imagined  himself  to 
have  discovered  a  way  to  which  the  rest  were  strangers.  Many  expedients 
were  indeed  tried  by  this  industrious  tribe,  of  whom  some  were  making 
themselves  wings,  which  others  were  contriving  to  actuate  by  the  perpetual 
motion.  But  with  all  their  labor  and  all  their  artifices,  they  never  rose 
above  the  ground,  or  quickly  fell  back,  nor  ever  approached  the  throne  of 
Hope,  but  continued  still  to  gaze  at  a  distance,  and  laughed  at  the  slow 
progress  of  those  whom  they  saw  toiling  in  the  Strait  of  Difficulty. 

Part  of  the  favorites  of  Fancy,  when  they  had  entered  the  garden,  with- 
out making,  like  the  rest,  an  attempt  to  climb  the  mountain,  turned  imme- 
diately to  the  vale  of  Idleness,  a  calm  and  undisturbed  retirement,  from 
whence  they  could  always  have  Hope  in  prospect,  and  to  which  they 
pleased  themselves  with  believing  that  she  intended  speedily  to  descend. 
These  were  indeed  scorned  by  all  the  rest ;  but  they  seemed  very  little 
affected  by  contempt,  advice,  or  reproof,  but  were  resolved  to  expect  at 
ease  the  favor  of  the  goddess. 

Among  this  gay  race  I  was  wandering,  and  found  them  ready  to  answer 
all  my  questions,  and  willing  to  communicate  their  mirth ;  but  turning 
round,  I  saw  two  dreadful  monsters  entering  the  vale,  one  of  whom  I  knew 
to  be  Age,  and  the  other  Want.  Sport  and  revelling  were  now  at  an  end, 
and  a  universal  shriek  of  affright  and  distress  burst  out  and  awaked  me. 
41  2F 


482  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Tuesday,  October  1, 1751. 
MR.  EAMBLER  : 

•X-  -X-  #  •*  •£  *  *'*  * 

When  I  first  cheapened  ray  lodgings,  the  landlady  told  me  that  she 
hoped  I  was  not  an  author,  for  the  lodgers  on  the  first  floor  had  stipulated 
that  the  upper  rooms  should  not  be  occupied  by  a  noisy  trade.  I  very 
readily  promised  to  give  no  disturbance  to  her  family,  and  soon  dispatched 
a  bargain  on  the  usual  terms.  I  had  not  slept  many  nights  in  my  new 
apartment,  before  I  began  to  inquire  after  my  predecessors,  and  found  my 
landlady,  whose  imagination  is  filled  chiefly  with  her  own  affairs,  very 
ready  to  give  me  information. 

Curiosity,  like  all  other  desires,  produces  pain  as  well  as  pleasure.  Be- 
fore she  began  her  narrative,  I  had  heated  my  head  with  expectations  of 
adventures  and  discoveries,  of  elegance  in  disguise,  and  learning  in  distress ; 
and  was  somewhat  mortified  when  I  heard  that  the  first  tenant  was  a  tailor, 
of  whom  nothing  was  remembered  but  that  he  complained  of  his  room  for 
want  of  light ;  and,  after  having  lodged  in  it  a  month,  and  paid  only  a 
week's  rent,  pawned  a  piece  of  cloth  which  he  was  trusted  to  cut  out,  and 
was  forced  to  make  a  precipitate  retreat  from  this  quarter  of  the  town. 

The  next  was  a  young  woman  newly  arrived  from  the  country,  who  lived 
for  five  weeks  with  great  regularity,  and  became  by  frequent  treats  very 
much  the  favorite  of  the  family,  but  at  last  received  visits  so  frequently 
from  a  cousin  in  Cheapside,  that  she  brought  the  reputation  of  the  house 
into  danger,  and  was  therefore  dismissed  with  good  advice. 

The  room  then  stood  empty  for  a  fortnight ;  my  landlady  began  to  think 
that  she  had  judged  hardly,  and  often  wished  for  such  another  lodger.  At 
last,  an  elderly  man  of  a  grave  aspect  read  the  bill,  and  bargained  for  the 
room  at  the  very  first  price  that  was  asked.  He  lived  in  close  retirement, 
seldom  went  out  till  evening,  and  then  returned  early,  sometimes  cheerful, 
and  at  other  times  dejected.  It  was  remarkable,  that  whatever  he  pur- 
chased, he  never  had  small  money  in  his  pocket ;  and,  though  cool  and 
temperate  on  other  occasions,  was  always  vehement  and  stormy  till  he  re- 
ceived his  change.  He  paid  his  rent  with  great  exactness,  and  seldom 
failed  once  a  week  to  requite  my  landlady's  civility  with  a  supper.  At  last, 
such  is  the  fate  of  human  felicity,  the  house  was  alarmed  at  midnight  by 
the  constable,  who  demanded  to  search  the  garrets.  My  landlady  assuring 
him  that  he  had  mistaken  the  door,  conducted  him  up  stairs,  where  he 
found  the  tools  of  a  coiner  ;  but  the  tenant  had  crawled  along  the  roof  to 
an  empty  house,  and  escaped ;  much  to  the  joy  of  my  landlady,  who  de- 
clares him  a  very  honest  man,  and  wonders  why  anybody  should  be  hanged 
for  making  money,  when  such  numbers  are  in  want  of  it.  She  however 
confesses  that  she  shall,  for  the  future,  always  question  the  character  of 
those  who  take  her  garret  without  beating  down  the  price. 

The  bill  was  then  placed  again  in  the  window,  and  the  poor  woman  was 
teased  for  seven  weeks  by  innumerable  passengers,  who  obliged  her  to  climb 
with  them  every  hour  up  five  stories,  and  then  disliked  the  prospect,  hated 
the  noise  of  a  public  street,  thought  the  stairs  narrow,  objected  to  a  low 
ceiling,  required  the  walls  to  be  hung  with  fresher  paper,  asked  questions 
about  the  neighborhood,  could  not  think  of  living  so  far  from  their  ac- 
quaintance, wished  the  windows  had  looked  to  the  south  rather  than  the 
west,  told  how  the  door  and  chimney  might  have  been  better  disposed,  bid 
her  half  the  price  that  she  asked,  or  promised  to  give  her  earnest  the  next 
day,  and  came  no  more. 


JOHNSON.  483 


At  last,  a  short  meager  man  in  a  tarnished  waistcoat,  desired  to  see  the 
garret,  and,  when  he  had  stipulated  for  two  long  shelves,  and  a  larger  table, 
hired  it  at  a  low  rate.  When  the  affair  was  completed,  he  looked  round 
him  with  great  satisfaction,  and  repeated  some  words  which  the  woman  did 
not  understand.  In  two  days  he  brought  a  great  box  of  books,  took  posses- 
sion of  his  room  and  lived  very  inoffensively,  except  that  he  frequently 
disturbed  the  inhabitant!  of  the  next  floor  by  unseasonable  noises.  He 
was  generally  in  bed  at  noon ;  but  from  evening  to  midnight  he  sometimes 
talked  aloud  with  great  vehemence,  sometimes  stamped  as  in  rage,  some- 
times threw  down  his  poker,  then  clattered  his  chairs,  then  sat  down  in 
deep  thought,  and  again  burst  out  into  loud  vociferations ;  sometimes  he 
would  sigh  as  oppressed  with  misery,  and  sometimes  shake  with  convulsive 
laughter.  When  he  encountered  any  of  the  family,  he  gave  way  or  bowed, 
but  rarely  spoke,  except  that  as  he  went  up  stairs  lie  often  repeated,  in 
Greek, 

This  habitant  th'  aerial  regions  boast : 

hard  words,  to  which  his  neighbors  listened  so  often  that  they  learned  them 
without  understanding  them.  What  was  his  employment  she  did  not  ven- 
ture to  ask  him,  but  at  last  heard  a  printer's  boy  inquire  for  the  author. 

My  landlady  was  very  often  advised  to  beware  of  this  strange  man,  who, 
though  he  was  quiet  for  the  present,  might  perhaps  become  outrageous  in 
the  hot  months ;  but  as  she  was  punctually  paid,  she  could  not  find  any  suf- 
ficient reason  for  dismissing  him,  till  one  night  he  convinced  her,  by  setting 
fire  to  his  curtains,  that  it  was  not  safe  to  have  an  author  for  her  inmate. 

She  had  then  for  six  weeks  a  succession  of  tenants  who  left  the  house  on 
Saturday,  and,  instead  of  paying  their  rent,  stormed  at  their  landlady.  At 
last  she  took  in  two  sisters,  one  of  whom  had  spent  her  little  fortune  in  pro- 
curing remedies  for  a  lingering  disease,  and  was  now  supported  and  attended 
by  the  other:  she  climbed  with  difficulty  to  the  apartment,  where  she 
languished  eight  weeks  without  impatience  or  lamentation,  except  for  the 
expense  and  fatigue  which  her  sister  suffered,  and  then  calmly  and  con- 
tentedly expired.  The  sister  followed  her  to  the  grave,  paid  the  few  debts 
which  they  had  contracted,  wiped  away  the  tears  of  useless  sorrow,  and 
returning  to  the  business  of  common  life,  resigned  to  me  the  vacant  habita- 
tion  

I  am,  Sir,  etc. 

Saturday,  Sept.  7, 1751. 

The  direction  of  Aristotle  to  those  that  study  politics,  is,  first  to  examine 
and  understand  what  has  been  written  by  the  ancients  upon  government ; 
then  to  cast  their  eyes  round  upon  the  world,  and  consider  by  what  causes 
the  prosperity  of  communities  is  visibly  influenced,  and  why  some  are  worse 
and  others  better  administered.  The  same  method  must  be  pursued  by  him 
who  hopes  to  become  eminent  in  any  other  part  of  knowledge.  The  first 
task  is  to  search  books,  the  next  to  contemplate  nature.  He  must  first 
possess  himself  of  the  intellectual  treasures  which  the  diligence  of  former 
ages  has  accumulated,  and  then  endeavor  to  increase  them  by  his  own  col- 
lections. 

The  mental  disease  of  the  present  generation  is  impatience  of  study,  con- 
tempt of  the  great  masters  of  ancient  wisdom,  and  a  disposition  to  rely 
wholly  upon  unassisted  genius  and  natural  sagacity.  The  wits  of  these 
happy  days  have  discovered  a  way  to  fame,  which  the  dull  caution  of  our 
laborious  ancestors  durst  never  attempt ;  they  cut  the  knots  of  sophistry 


484  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

which  it  was  formerly  the  business  of  years  to  untie,  solve  difficulties  by 
sudden  irradiations  of  intelligence,  and  comprehend  long  processes  of  argu- 
ment by  immediate  intuition. 

Men  who  have  flattered  themselves  into  this  opinion  of  their  own  abil- 
ities, look  down  on  all  who  waste  their  lives  over  books  as  a  race  of  inferior 
beings,  condemned  by  nature  to  perpetual  pupilage,  and  fruitlessly  endeavor- 
ing to  remedy  their  barrenness  by  incessant  cultivation,  or  succor  their 
feebleness  by  subsidiary  strength.  They  presume  that  none  would  be  more 
industrious  than  they,  if  they  were  not  more  sensible  of  deficiencies ;  and 
readily  conclude,  that  he  who  places  no  confidence  in  his  own  powers,  owes 
his  modesty  only  to  his  weakness. 

It  is  however  certain  that  no  estimate  is  more  in  danger  of  erroneous  cal- 
culations than  those  by  which  a  man  computes  the  force  of  his  own  genius. 
It  generally  happens  at  our  entrance  into  the  world,  that  by  the  natural 
attraction  of  similitude,  we  associate  with  men  like  ourselves,  young, 
sprightly,  and  ignorant,  and  rate  our  accomplishments  by  comparison  with 
theirs :  when  we  have  once  obtained  an  acknowledged  superiority  over  our 
acquaintances,  imagination  and  desires  easily  extend  it  over  the  rest  of 
mankind ;  and  if  no  accident  forces  us  into  new  emulations,  we  grow  old, 
and  die  in  admiration  of  ourselves. 

Vanity,  thus  confirmed  in  her  dominion,  readily  listens  to  the  voice  of 
idleness,  and  soothes  the  slumber  of  life  with  continual  dreams  of  excellence 
and  greatness.  A  man,  elated  by  confidence  in  his  natural  vigor  of  fancy 
and  sagacity  of  conjecture,  soon  concludes  that  he  already  possesses  what- 
ever toil  and  inquiry  can  confer.  lie  then  listens  with  eagerness  to  the 
wild  objections  which  folly  has  raised  against  the  common  means  of  im- 
provement ;  talks  of  the  dark  chaos  of  indigested  knowledge ;  describes  the 
mischievous  effects  of  heterogeneous  sciences  fermenting  in  the  mind  ;  relates 
the  blunders  of  lettered  ignorance  ;  expatiates  on  the  heroic  merit  of  those 
who  deviate  from  prescription,  or  shake  off  authority ;  and  gives  vent  to 
the  inflations  of  his  heart  by  declaring  that  he  owes  nothing  to  pedants  and 
universities. 

All  these  pretensions,  however  confident,  are  very  often  vain.  The  laurels 
which  superficial  acuteness  gains  in  triumphs  over  ignorance  unsupported 
by  vivacity,  are  observed  by  Locke  to  be  lost,  whenever  real  learning  and 
rational  diligence  appears " against  her;  the  sallies  of  gayety  are  soon  re- 
pressed by  calm  confidence ;  and  the  artifices  of  subtilty  are  readily  detected 
by  those  who,  having  carefully  studied  the  question,  are  not  easily  con- 
founded or  surprised. 

But,  though  the  contemner  of  books  had  neither  been  deceived  by  others 
nor  himself,  and  was  really  born  with  a  genius  surpassing  the  ordinary 
abilities  of  mankind ;  yet  'surely  such  gifts  of  Providence  may  be  more 
properly  urged  as  incitements  to  labor,  than  encouragements  to  negligence. 
He  that  neglects  the  culture  of  ground  naturally  fertile,  is  more  shamefully 
culpable  than  he  whose  field  would  scarcely  recompense  his  husbandry. 

Cicero  remarks,  that  not  to  know  what  has  been  transacted  in  former 
times,  is  to  continue  always  a  child.  If  no  use  is  made  of  the  labors  of 
past  ages,  the  world  must  remain  always  in  the  infancy  of  knowledge. 
The  discoveries  of  every  man  must  terminate  in  his  own  advantage,  and 
the  studies  of  every  age  be  employed  on  questions  which  the  past  genera- 
tion had  discussed  and  determined.  We  may  with  as  little  reproach 
borrow  science  as  manufactures  from  our  ancestors ;  and  it  is  as  rational 


JOHNSON.  485 


to  live  in  caves  till  our  hands  have  erected  a  palace,  as  to  reject  all  knowl- 
edge of  architecture  which  our  understandings  will  not  supply. 
•*##•*#-;:-•*##•* 
But,  though  the  study  of  books  is  necessary,  it  is  not  sufficient  to  consti- 
tute literary  eminence.  He  that  wishes  to  be  counted  among  the  benefac- 
tors of  posterity,  must  add  by  his  own  toil  to  the  acquisitions  of  his  ances- 
tors, and  secure  his  memory  from  neglect  by  some  valuable  improvement. 
This  can  only  be  effected  by  looking  out  upon  the  wastes  of  the  intellectual 
world,  and  extending  the  power  of  learning  over  regions  yet  undisciplined 
and  barbarous  ;  or  by  surveying  more  exactly  our  ancient  dominions,  and 
driving  ignorance  from  the  fortresses  and  retreats  where  she  skulks  unde- 
tected and  undisturbed.  Every  science  has  its  difficulties,  which  yet  call 
for  solution  before  we  attempt  new  systems  of  knowledge ;  as  every  country 
has  its  forests  and  marshes,  which  it  would  be  wise  to  cultivate  and  drain, 
before  distant  colonies  are  projected  as  a  necessary  discharge  of  the  exuber- 
ance of  the  inhabitants. 

No  man  ever  yet  became  great  by  imitation.  Whoever  hopes  for  the 
veneration  of  mankind  must  have  invention  in  the  design  or  the  execution ; 
either  the  effect  must  itself  be  new,  or  the  means  by  which  it  is  produced. 
Either  truths  hitherto  unknown  must  be  discovered,  or  those  which  are 
already  known  enforced  by  stronger  evidence,  facilitated  by  clearer  method, 
or  elucidated  by  brighter  illustrations. 

Fame  cannot  spread  wide  or  endure  long  that  is  not  rooted  in  nature 
and  manured  by  art.  That  which  hopes  to  resist  the  blast  of  malignity, 
and  stand  firm  against  the  attacks  of  time,  must  contain  in  itself  some  orig- 
inal principle  of  growth.  The  reputation  which  arises  from  the  detail  of 
transposition  of  borrowed  sentiments  may  spread  for  awhile  like  ivy  on 
the  rind  of  antiquity,  but  will  be  torn  away  by  accident  or  contempt,  and 
suffered  to  rot  unheeded  on  the  ground. 

"  Johnson  decided  literary  questions  like  a  lawyer,  not  like  a 
legislator.  His  whole  code  of  criticism  rested  on  pure  assumption, 
for  which  he  sometimes  gave  a  precedent  or  an  authority,  but 
rarely  troubled  himself  to  give  a  reason  drawn  from  the  nature  of 
things.  He  took  it  for  granted  that  the  kind  of  poetry  which  flour- 
ished in  his  own  time,  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  hear 
praised  from  his  childhood,  and  which  he  had  himself  written  with 
success,  was  the  best  kind  of  poetry.  He  could  see  no  merit  in  our 
fine  old  English  ballads,  and  always  spoke  with  the  most  provok- 
ing contempt  of  Percy's  fondness  for  them.  Of  all  the  great  origi- 
nal works  which  appeared  during  his  time,  Richardson's  novels 
alone  excited  his  admiration.  He  could  see  little  or  no  merit  in 
'Tom  Jones,'  in  'GulliverV;  Travels,'  or  in  'Tristram  Shandy.'  To 
Thomson's  '  Castle  of  Indolence  '  he  vouchsafed  only  a  line  of  cold 
commendation — of  commendation  much  colder  than  what  he  has 
bestowed  on  the  '  Creation '  of  that  portentous  bore,  Sir  Richard 
Blackmore.  He  criticised  Pope's  Epitaphs  excellently;  but  his 
observations  on  Shakespeare's  plays  and  Milton's  poems  seem  to 
41* 


486  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

us  as  wretched  as  if  they  had  been  written  by  Rymer  himself,  whom 
we  take  to  have  been  the  worst  critic  that  ever  lived. 

"  Even  his  remarks  on  society,  like  his  remarks  on  literature, 
indicate  a  mind  at  least  as  remarkable  for  narrowness  as  for 
strength.  He  was  no  master  of  the  great  science  of  human 
nature.  He  had  studied,  not  the  genus  man,  but  the  species  Lon- 
doner. Nobody  was  ever  so  thoroughly  conversant  with  all  the 
forms  of  life,  and  all  the  shades  of  moral  and  intellectual  character, 
which  were  to  be  seen  from  Islington  to  the  Thames,  and  from 
"Hyde  Park  corner  to  Mile-end  green.  But,  his  philosophy  stopped 
at  the  first  turnpike  gate.  Of  the  rural  life  of  England  he  knew 
nothing ;  and  he  took  it  for  granted  that  everybody  who  lived  in 
the  country  was  either  stupid  or  miserable. 

"  His  conversations  appear  to  have  been  quite  equal  to  his 
writings  in  matter,  and  far  superior  to  them  in  manner.  When  he 
talked,  he  clothed  his  wit  and  his  sense  in  forcible  and  natural 
expressions.  As  soon  as  he  took  his  pen  in  his  hand  to  write  for 
the  public,  his  style  became  systematically  vicious.  All  his  books 
are  written  in  a  learned  language — in  a  language  which  nobody 
hears  from  his  mother  or  his  nurse — in  a  language  in  which. nobody 
ever  quarrels,  or  drives  bargains,  or  makes  love — in  a  language  in 
which  nobody  ever  thinks.  It  is  clear  that  Johnson  himself  did 
not  think  in  the  dialect  in  which  he  wrote.  The  expressions 
which  came  first  to  his  tongue  were  simple,  energetic,  and  pictur- 
esque. When  he  wrote  for  publication,  he  did  his  sentences  out 
of  English  into  Johnsonese.  His  constant  practice  of  padding  out 
a  sentence  with  useless  epithets,  till  it  became  as  stiif  as  the  bust 
of  an  exquisite;  his  antithetical  forms  of  expression,  constantly 
employed  even  when  there  is  no  opposition  in  the  ideas  expressed  ; 
his  big  words  wasted  on  litile  things  ;  his  harsh  inversions,  so 
widely  differing  from  those  graceful  and  easy  inversions  which 
give  variety,  spirit,  and  sweetness  to  the  expressions  of  our  great, 
old  writers — all  these  peculiarities  have  been  imitated  by  his 
admirers,  and  parodied  by  his  assailants,  till  the  public  has  become 
sick  of  the  subject."  * 

*  Macaulay's  Miscellaneous  Writingt. 


I 

JONATHAN   SWIFT. 


JONATHAN  SWIFT  was  born  of  English  parents  in  Hoey's 
court,  Dublin,  November  30,  1667.  The  strange  vicissitudes  of 
his  life  had  an  early  beginning ;  for,  a  posthumous  child,  when 
only  a  year  old,  he  was  clandestinely  carried  away  from  his 
home  to  England  by  his  too  affectionate  nurse,  where  he 
remained — not  without  his  mother's  knowledge  and  consent, 
however — until  his  sixth  year.  Upon  his  return,  or  soon  after- 
ward, he  was  sent  by  his  uncle  to  school  at  Kilkenny,  where  he 
remained  eight  years,  when  he  was  admitted  (in  1682)  a  pen- 
sioner in  the  university  of  Dublin.  Here  he  soon  provoked  the 
hostility  of  the  college  authorities  by  his  undisguised  contempt 
for  the  system  of  scholastic  learning  then  so  reverenced,  and  by 
his  contumacious  conduct  on  not  a  few  occasions ;  so  that  his 
degree  was  finally  obtained  speciali  gratia. 

Shortly  after  leaving  the  university,  Swift  went  (in  1688)  to 
reside  with  Sir  William  Temple,  a  distant  relation,  then  living 
at  Sheen,  England.  In  this  delightful  retreat,  and  afterwards 
in  the  beautiful  villa  of  Moor-park,  near  Farnham,  he  spent, 
with  slight  interruptions,  the  next  ten  years  of  his  life,  pursu- 
ing his  favorite  studies  with  uncommon  zeal  and  success,  serv- 
ing as  private  secretary  to  his  illustrious  relative,  and  mingling 
in  polite  and  cultured  society.  During  the  fourth  year  of  this 
residence  he  took  his  master's  degree  at  Oxford,  and  in  1694-95 
assumed  deacon's  and  priest's  orders  in  the  Irish  Church. 

It  was  while  at  Moor-park,  also,  that  Swift  formed  the 
acquaintance  of  Esther  Johnson,  whom  he  served  as  tutor,  and 
whom  he  afterwards  immortalized  as  "  Stella."  This  young 
lady — though  she  was  a  mere  girl  at  the  time  of  their  first  meet- 
ing— became  strangely  enamored  of  Swift,  and  when  in  after 
years  he  took  up  his  residence  in  Ireland,  she  lovingly  accom- 
panied him  thither,  living  near  him,  and  was  constantly  visited 
by  him.  During  his  absence  in  England,  Swift  remembered 

487 


488  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

this  fair  devotee  in  numerous  epistles,  which  now  constitute  his 
famous  Journal  to  Stella.  Yet  this  affair,  while  it  was  an  exhi- 
bition of  the  purest  and  most  absorbing  affection  on  Stella's 
part,  with  the  reserved  and  passionless  Swift  ever  remained  a 
matter  of  mere  friendship.  Similar  to  the  above  in  kind,  and 
even  more  remarkable  in  degree,  was  the  case  of  Miss  Vanhom- 
righ,  or  "  Vanessa,"  as  Swift  idealized  her. 

Upon  the  death  of  his  patron,  Swift  removed  to  London,  and 
there  published  a  complete  edition  of  Sir  William  Temple's 
works.  He  had  been  now  for  some  time  encouraged  to  expect 
an  appointment  to  some  vacant  prebend  on  English  soil ;  but, 
after  experiencing  several  disappointments,  he  was  obliged  (in 
1700)  to  rest  content  with  the  small  livings  of  Laracor  and 
Rathbeggin,  Ireland.  He  continued  here  until  1710,  discharg- 
ing with  commendable  fidelity  the  duties  of  his  office  and  repair- 
ing his  dilapidated  church  and  parsonage,  and  paying  yearly 
visits  to  England.  It  was  during  this  interval  also  (in  1704), 
that  Swift  published  The  Tale  of  a  Tub,  a  burlesque  of  the 
three  sects  of  Christians — the  Roman  Catholic,  the  Lutheran, 
and  the  Calvinistic,  set  forth  in  the  drollest  of  language  and 
the  most  farcical  of  incidents. 

Among  the  distinguished  men  with  whom  Swift  now  asso- 
ciated as  a  peer  were,  of  political  characters,  Lords  Somers, 
Halifax,  and  Pembroke;  and  of  men  of  letters,  Addison,  Prior, 
Parnell,  Garth,  Philips,  Pope,  Arbuthnot,  and  Gray.  Dryden 
he  was  even  related  to,  but  nevertheless  despised  him  most 
heartily.  With  several  of  these  our  author  formed  the  "  Scrib- 
lerus  Club,"  whose  members  made  a  common  stock  both  of  their 
affections  and  their  writings.  The  latter  constituted  the  famous 
Miscellanies . 

About  this  time,  too,  Swift  began  to  take  a  prominent  part  in 
political  controversies  and  movements.  His  inherent  love  of. 
freedom,  justice,  and  patriotism  inclined  him  to  the  Whig  party, 
while  his  devotion  to  the  interests  of  the  Established  church 
swayed  him  not  a  little  toward  the  side  of  the  Tories.  Accord- 
ingly, in  advocating  what  he  conceived  to  be  sound  political 
views,  he  was  in  turn  claimed  as  an  ally  by  each  party,  and  in 
turn  denounced  by  each  as  a  renegade ;  for  his  ready  and 


SWIFT.  489 


abundant  wit,  and  his  unparalleled  powers  of  satire  and  vitu- 
peration, rendered  him  a  most  desirable  friend  and  a  most 
dreaded  opponent. 

Omitting  the  mention  of  less  significant  services,  we  may 
refer  to  the  influence  exerted  by  his  Drapier  s  Letters,  published 
in  1724,  and  which  were  instrumental  in  preventing  the  grant- 
ing of  a  contract  to  one  William  Wood  to  circulate  a  large 
quantity  of  copper  coin  in  Ireland.  By  this  important  service 
Swift  secured  the  lasting  gratitude  of  the  Irish  people.  "  He 
was  known  from  this  time  by  the  appellation  of  '  The  Dean.' 
He  was  honored  by  the  populace  as  the  champion,  patron,  and 
instructor  of  Ireland  ;  and  gained  such  power  as,  considered 
both  in  its  extent  and  duration,  scarcely  any  man  has  ever 
enjoyed  without  greater  wealth  or  higher  station.  He  was  from 
this  important  year  the  oracle  of  the  traders  and  the  idol  of  the 
rabble,  and  by  consequence  was  feared  and  courted  by  all  to 
whom  the  kindness  of  the  traders  or  the  populace  was  necessary. 
The  Drapier  was  a  sign  ;  the  Drapier  was  a  health ;  and  which 
way  soever  the  eye  or  the  ear  was  turned,  some  tokens  were 
found  of  the  nation's  gratitude  to  the  Drapier."*  Of  his  numer- 
ous political  writings,  we  have  space  only  for  naming  The  Con- 
duct of  the  Allies,  Public  Spirit  of  the  Whigs,  and  History  of  the 
Peace  of  Utrecht. 

In  1713,  Swift,  having  been  created  dean  of  St.  Patrick's, 
Dublin,  again  set  out  for  Ireland.  For  twelve  years  he  devoted 
himself  to  the  twofold  duties  of  the  church  and  state,  penning 
during  that  interval  many  of  his  most  valuable  political  pam- 
phlets. In  1726  he  again  returned  to  England,  carrying  with 
him  the  manuscript  of  the  work  which  above  all  others  estab- 
lished his  literary  fame — Gulliver  s  Travels.  It  was  published 
— as  were  all  of  his  writings — anonymously,  and  was  received 
with  extraordinary  favor.  "  This  work,"  as  Sir  Walter  Scott 
remarks,  "  offered  personal  and  political  satire  to  the  readers  in 
high  life,  low  and  coarse  incident  to  the  vulgar,  marvels  to  the 
romantic,  wit  to  the  young  and  lively,  lessons  of  morality  and 
policy  to  the  grave,  and  maxims  of  deep  and  bitter  misanthropy 
to  neglected  age  and  disappointed  ambition." 


*  A  Memoir  of  Jonathan  Swift,  by  Thomas  Roscoe. 


490  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Swift  again  repaired  to  Ireland  in  1728  to  find  "Stella" 
dying.  He  watched,  over  her  tenderly,  soothed  and  prayed 
with  her,  but  refused  to  the  last  to  confess  her  as  his  wife, 
although  they  had  been  formally  married  in  the  garden  of  the 
deanery  in  1710.  The  next  eight  or  nine  years  were  spent  in 
an  attentive  and  vigorous  discharge  of  his  duties  as  dean. 

In  173G,  a  disease,  which  had  greatly  distressed  him  at  inter- 
vals through  life,  and  which  by  himself  was  declared  to  have 
originated  in  an  early  surfeit  of  fruit,  began  to  manifest  itself 
alarmingly  in  a  loss  of  memory,  and  in  a  general  torpor  of  his 
mental  arid  physical  powers.  So  serious  were  its  ravages,  that 
never  afterwards  did  he  attempt  any  composition  requiring 
much  thought  or  more  than  a  single  sitting.  Indeed,  during 
the  last  three  or  four  years  of  his  life  he  lay  in  a  state  of  almost 
complete  unconsciousness,,  seldom  speaking  a  word.  He  died 
October  19,  1745,  arid  "  was  buried  in  the  most  private  manner, 
according  to  the  directions  in  his  will,  in  the  great  aisle  of  St. 
Patrick's  cathedral ;  and  by  way  of  a  monument,  a  slab  of  black 
marble  was  placed  against  the  wall,  on  which  was  engraven  a 
Latin  epitaph  written  by  himself." 

Our  first  extract  is  taken  from  A  Tale  of  a  Tub  : 

Once  upon  a  time,  there  was  a  man  who  had  three  sons*  by  one  wife, 
and  all  at  a  birth  ;  neither  could  the  midwife  tell  certainly  which  was  the 
eldest.  Their  father  died  while  they  were  young ;  and  upon  his  death-bed, 
calling  the  lads  to  him,  spoke  thus : 

"  Sons,  because  I  have  purchased  no  estate,  nor  was  born  to  any,  I  have 
long  considered  of  some  good  legacies  to  bequeath  you ;  and  at  last,  with 
much  care,  as  well  as  expense,  have  provided  each  of  you  (here  they  are) 
a  new  coat.  Now,  you  are  to  understand  that  these  coats  have  two  virtues 
contained  in  them.  One  is,  that,  with  good  wearing,  they  will  last  you 
fresh  and  sound  as  long  as  you  live :  the  other  is,  that  they  will  grow  in 
the  same  proportion  with  your  bodies,  lengthening  and  widening  of  them- 
selves, so  as  to  be  always  fit.  Here,  let  me  see  them  on  you  before  I  die. 
So,  very  well ;  pray,  children,  wear  them  clean,  and  brush  them  often. 
You  will  find  in  my  willf  (here  it  is)  full  instructions  in  every  particular 
concerning  the  wearing  and  management  of  your  coats ;  wherein  you  must 
be  very  exact,  to  avoid  the  penalties  I  have  appointed  for  every  transgres- 
sion or  neglect,  upon  which  your  future  fortunes  will  entirely  depend.  I 
have  also  commanded  in  my  will  that  you  should  live  together  in  one 
house,  like  brethren  and  friends ;  for  then  you  will  be  sure  to  thrive,  and 
not  otherwise." 

Here  the  story  says  this  good  father  died,  and  the  three  sons  went,  alto- 

*  Peter  (the  Pope).  Martin  (Luther),  and  Jack  (Calvin), 
t  The  New  Testament. 


SWIFT.  491 


gether,  to  seek  their  fortunes.  I  shall  not  trouble  you  with  recounting  what 
adventures  they  met  for  the  first  seven  years,  any  further  than  by  taking 
notice  that  they  carefully  observed  their  father's  will,  and  kept  their  coats 
in  very  good  order ;  that  they  traveled  through  several  countries,  encoun- 
tered a  reasonable  quantity  of  giants,  and  slew  certain  dragons. 

Being  now  arrived  at  the  proper  age,  they  came  up  to  town,  and  fell  in 
love  with  the  ladies ;  but  especially  three,  who  about  that  time  were  in 
chief  reputation ;  the  Duchess  d' Argent*  Madame  de  Grands  Titresrf  and 
Countess  d'Orgueil.%  On  their  first  appearance,  our  three  adventurers  met 
with  a  very  bad  reception,  and  soon  with  great  sagacity  guessing  out  the 
reason,  they  quickly  began  to  improve  in  the  good  qualities  of  the  town.  .  .  . 

On  the  one  side,  the  three  ladies  they  addressed  themselves  to  were  ever 
at  the  very  top  of  the  fashion,  and  abhorred  all  that  were  below  it  but  the 
breadth  of  an  hair.  On  the  other  side,  their  father's  will  was  very  precise ; 
and  it  was  the  main  precept  in  it,  with  the  greatest  penalties  annexed :  Not 
to  add  to,  or  diminish  from  their  coats,  one  thread,  without  a  positive  com- 
mand in  the  will.  Now,  the  coats  their  father  had  left  them,  were,  it  is 
true,  of  very  good  cloth  ;  and,  besides,  so  neatly  sown  you  would  swear  they 
were  all  of  a  piece ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  very  plain,  and  with  little  or  no 
ornament.  And  it  happened  that,  before  they  were  a  month  in  town,  great 
shoulder-knots  came  up :  straight  all  the  world  was  shoulder-knots ;  no  ap- 
proaching the  ladies  rueltes  without  the  quota  of  shoulder-knots. 

They  went  immediately  to  consult  their  father's  will ;  read  it  over  and 
over,  but  not  a  word  of  the  shoulder-knot.  \Vhat  should  they  do?  Obedi- 
ence was  absolutely  necessary ;  and  yet  shoulder-knots  appeared  extremely 
requisite.  After  much  thought,  one  of  the  brothers,  who  happened  to  be 
more  book-learned  than  the  other  two,  said  he  had  found  an  expedient. 
"  It  is  true,"  said  he,  "  there  is  nothing  here  in  this  will,  totidem  verbis,  making 
mention  of  shoulder-knots ;  but  I  dare  conjecture  we  may  find  them  inclu- 
sive, or  totidem  syllabis."  This  distinction  was  immediately  approved  by 
all ;  and  so  they  fell  again  to  examine  the  will.  But  their  evil  star  had  so 
directed  the  matter,  that  the  first  syllable  was  not  to  be  found  in  the  whole 
writing.  Upon  which  disappointment,  he  who  found  the  former  evasion 
took  heart,  and  said,  "  Brothers,  there  are  yet  hopes ;  for  though  we  cannot 
find  them  totidem  verbis,  nor  totidem  syllabis,  I  dare  engage  we  shall  make 
them  out  tertio  modo,  or  totidem  literis." 

This  discovery  was  also  highly  commended  :  upon  which  they  fell  once 
more  to  the  scrutiny,  and  soon  picked  out  S,  H,  O,  U,  L,  D,  E,  R ;  when 
the  same  planet,  enemy  to  their  repose,  had  wonderfully  contrived  that  K 
was  not  to  be  found.  Here  was  a  weighty  difficulty  !  But  the  distinguished 
brother  (Peter),  now  his  hand  was  in,  proved,  by  a  very  good  argument, 
that  K  was  a  modern  illegitimate  letter,  unknown  to  the  learned  ages,  nor 
anywhere  to  be  found  in  ancient  manuscripts.  "  It  is  true,"  said  he,  "  the 
word  Calendcs  hath  in  Q.  V.  C.  (MSS.)  been  sometimes  written  with  a  K,  but 
erroneously ;  for  in  the  best  copies  it  is  ever  spelt  with  a  C.  And  by  conse- 
quence it  was  a  gross  mistake  in  our  language  to  spell  knot  with  a  K  ;  but 
that  from  henceforward  he  would  take  care  it  should  be  written  with  a  C." 
Upon  this,  all  further  difficulty  vanished ;  shoulder-knots  were  made  clearly 
out  to  be  jure  paterno;  and  our  three  gentlemen  swaggered  with  as  large 
and  as  flaunting  ones  as  the  best 

A  while  after,  there  came  up  all  in  fashion,  a  pretty  sort  of  flame-colored 

*  Covetousness.  f  Ambition.  $  Pride. 


492  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


satin  for  linings ;  and  the  mercer  brought  a  pattern  of  it  immediately  to 

our  three  gentlemen.    "  Ain't  please  your  Worships  My  Lord  C and  Sir 

J.  W had  linings  out  of  this  very  piece  last  night.    It  takes  wonderfully  ; 

and  I  shall  not  have  a  remnant  left,  enough  to  make  my  wife  a  pin-cushion, 
by  to-morrow  morning  at  ten  o'clock." 

Upon  this  tiiey  fell  again  to  rummage  the  will,  because  the  present  case 
also  required  a  positive  precept ;  the  lining  being  held  by  orthodox  writers 
to  be  of  the  essence  of  the  coat.  After  long  search  they  could  fix  upon 
nothing  to  the  matter  in  hand,  except  a  short  advice  of  their  father's  in  the 
will,  to  take  care  of  fire,  and  put  out  their  candles  before  they  went  to  sleep !  ~;;~ 
This,  though  a  good  deal  for  the  purpose,  and  helping  very  far  towards  self- 
conviction,  yet  not  seeming  wholly  of  force  to  establish  a  command ;  and 
being  resolved  to  avoid  further  scruple,  as  well  as  future  occasion  for  scan- 
dal, says  he  that  was  the  scholar,  "  I  remember  to  have  read  in  wills  of  a 
codicil  annexed  ;  which  is  indeed  a  part  of  the  will ;  and  what  it  contains 
hath  equal  authority  with  the  re'st.  Now,  I  have  been  considering  of  this 
same  will  here  before  us ;  and  I  cannot  reckon  it  to  be  complete,  for  want 
of  such  a  codicil.  I  will  therefore  fasten  one  in  its  proper  place  very  dex- 
terously. I  have  had  it  by  me  some  time.  It  was  written  by  a  dog-keeper  f 
of  my  grandfather's ;  and  talks  a  great  deal,  as  good  luck  would  have  it,  of 
this  very  flame-colored  satin."  The  project  was  immediately  approved  by 
the  other  two ;  an  old  parchment  scroll  was  tagged  on  according  to  art 
in  the  form  of  a  codicil  annexed,  and  the  satin  bought  and  worn. 

Next  winter,  a  player,  hired  for  the  purpose  by  the  corporation  of  fringe- 
makers,  acted  his  part  in  a  new  comedy,  all  covered  with  silver  fringe  ;  and, 
according  to  the  laudable  custom,  gave  rise  to  that  fashion.  Upon  which, 
the  brothers  consulting  their  father's  will,  to  their  great  astonishment  found 
these  words :  "  Item,  I  charge  and  command  my  said  three  sons,  to  wear  no 
sort  of  silver  fringe  upon  or  about  their  said  coats,  etc.,"  with  a  penalty  in 
case  of  disobedience,  too  long  here  to  insert.  However,  after  some  pause, 
the  brother  so  often  mentioned  for  his  erudition,  who  was  well  skilled  in 
criticisms,  had  found,  in  a  certain  author,  which  he  said  should  be  name- 
less, that  the  same  word,  which  in  the  will  is  called  fringe,  does  also  signify 
a  broom-stick,  and  doubtless  ought  to  have  the  same  interpretation  in  this 
paragraph.  This,  another  of  the  brothers  disliked,  because  of  that  epithet 
silver ;  which  could  not,  he  humbly  conceived,  in  propriety  of  speech,  be 
reasonably  applied  to  a  broom-stick.  But  it  was  replied  upon  him,  that 
this  epithet  was  understood  in  a  mythological  and  allegorical  sense.  How- 
ever, he  objected  again,  why  their  father  should  forbid  them  to  wear  a 
broom-stick  upon  their  coats ;  a  caution  that  seemed  unnatural  and  imperti- 
nent. Upon  which,  he  was  taken  up  short,  as  one  that  spoke  irreverently 
of  a  mystery ;  which  doubtless  was  very  useful  and  significant,  but  ought 
not  to  be  over-curiously  pried  into,  or  nicely  seasoned  upon.  And,  in  short, 
their  father's  authority  being  now  considerably  sunk,  this  expedient  was 
allowed  to  serve  as  a  lawful  dispensation  for  wearing  their  full  propor- 
tion of  silver  fringe. 

A  while  after  was  revived  an  old  fashion,  long  antiquated,  of  embroid- 
erv,  with  Indian  figures  of  men,  women,  and  children.  Here  they  had  no 
occasion  to  examine  the  will.  They  remembered  but  too  well  how  their 
father  had  always  abhorred  this  fashion ;  that  he  made  several  paragraphs 
on  purpose,  imparting  his  utter  detestation  of  it,  and  bestowing  his  ever- 


*Take  care  of  hell  ami  sub<h  e  your  passions.  t  Apocrypha. 


SWIFT.  493 


lasting  curse  to  his  sons  whenever  they  should  wear  it.  For  all  this,  in  a 
few  days  they  appeared  higher  in  the  fashion  than  anybody  else  in  the 
town.  But  they  solved  the  matter  by  saying  that  these  figures  were  not  at 
all  the  same  with  those  that  were  formerly  worn,  and  were  meant  in  the 
will.  Besides,  they  did  not  wear  them  in  that  sense  as  forbidden  by  their 
father,  but  as  they  were  a  commendable  custom,  and  of  great  use  to  the 
public.  That  these  rigorous  clauses  in  the  will  did  therefore  require  some 
allowance  and  a  favorable  interpretation,  and  ought  to  be  understood  cum 
grano  salis. 

But  fashions  perpetually  altering  in  that  age,  the  scholastic  brother  grew 
weary  of  searching  farther  evasions,  and  solving  everlasting  contradictions. 
Resolved,  therefore,  at  all  hazards,  to  comply  with  the  modes  of  the  world, 
they  concerted  matters  together,  and  agreed  unanimously  to  lock  up  their 
father's  will*  in  a  strong  box,  brought  out  of  Greece  or  Italy,  I  have  for- 
got which ;  and  trouble  themselves  no  farther  to  examine  it,  but  only  refer 
to  its  authority  whenever  they  thought  fit.  In  consequence  whereof,  a 
while  after,  it  grew  a  general  mode  to  wear  an  infinite  number  of  points, 
most  of  them  tagged  with  silver.  Upon  which  the  scholar  pronounced 
ex  cathedra,  that  points  were  absolutely  jure  paterno  as  they  might  very  well 
remember.  .  .  . 

The  learned  brother,  so  often  mentioned,  was  reckoned  the  best  scholar 
in  all  that  or  the  next  street  to  it ;  insomuch  as,  having  run  something 
behindhand  with  the  world,  he  obtained  the  favor  from  a  certain  lord  f  to 
receive  him  into  his  house,  and  to  teach  his  children.  A  while  after,  the 
lord  died ;  and  he,  by  long  practice  upon  his  father's  will,  found  a  way  of 
contriving  a  deed  of  conveyance  of  that  house  to  himself  and  his  heirs. 
Upon  which  he  took  possession,  turned  the  young  squires  out,  and  received 
his  brothers  in  their  stead. 

From  Gulliver 's  Travels  we  select  the  following  fragment  from 
his  "  Voyage  to  Liliput": 

The  emperor  was  already  descended  from  the  tower,  and  advancing  on 
horseback  towards  me,  which  had  like  to  have  cost  him  dear ;  for  the  beast, 
though  well  trained,  yet  wholly  unused  to  such  a  sight,  which  appeared  as 
if  a  mountain  moved  before  him,  reared  up  on  his  hinder  feet ;  but  that 
prince,  who  is  an  excellent  horseman,  kept  his  seat  till  his  attendants  ran 
on  and  held  the  bridle  while  his  majesty  had  time  to  dismount.  When  he 
alighted,  he  surveyed  me  round  with  great  admiration :  but  kept  beyond 
the  length  of  my  chain.  He  ordered  his  cooks  and  butlers,  who  were 
already  prepared,  to  give  me  victuals  and  drink,  which  they  pushed  for- 
ward in  a  sort  of  vehicles  upon  wheels  till  I  could  reach  them.  I  took 
these  vehicles,  and  soon  emptied  them  all :  twenty  of  them  were  filled  with 
meat,  and  ten  with  liquor ;  each  of  the  former  afforded  me  two  or  three 
good  mouthfuls ;  and  I  emptied  the  liquor  of  ten  vessels,  which  was  con- 
tained in  earthen  vials,  into  one  vehicle,  drinking  it  off  at  a  draught ;  and 
so  I  did  with  the  rest. 

The  empress  and  young  ladies  of  the  blood  of  both  sexes,  attended  by 
many  ladies,  sat  at  some  distance  in  their  chairs ;  but  upon  the  accident 
that  happened  to  the  emperor's  horse,  they  alighted  and  came  near  to  his 
person,  which  I  am  now  going  to  describe.  He  is  taller,  by  almost  the 

*  Sequester  the  Bible.  t  Constantino  the  Great. 

42 


494  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

breadth  of  ray  nail,  than  any  of  his  court ;  which  alone  is  enough  to  strike 
an  awe  into  the  beholders.  His  features  are  strong  and  masculine,  with  an 
Austrian  lip,  and  arched  nose;  his  complexion  olive,  his  countenance 
erect,  his  body  and  limbs  well  proportioned,  all  his  motions  graceful,  and 
his  deportment  majestic.  He  was  then  past  his  prime,  being  twenty-eight 
years  and  three-quarters  old,  of  which  he  had  reigned  about  seven  in  great 
felicity,  and  generally  victorious.  For  the  better  convenience  of  beholding 
him,  1  lay  on  my  side,  so  that  my  face  was  parallel  to  his,  and  lie  stood  but 
three  yards  off:  however,  I  have  had  him  since  many  times  in  my  hand, 
and  therefore  cannot  be  deceived  in  the  description.  His  dress  was 
very  plain  and  simple,  and  the  fashion  of  it  between  the  Asiatic  and  the 
European :  but  he  had  on  his  head  a  light  helmet  of  gold,  adorned  with 
jewels,  and  a  plume  on  the  crest.  He  held  his  sword  drawn  in  his  hand 
to  defend  himself  if  I  should  happen  to  break  loose :  it  was  almost  three 
inches  long;  the  hilt  and  scabbard  were  gold,  enriched  with  diamonds. 
His  voice  was  shrill,  but  very  clear  and  articulate,  and  I  could  distinctly 
hear  it  when  I  stood  up. 

The  ladies  and  courtiers  were  all  most  magnificently  clad ;  so  that  the 
spot  they  stood  upon  seemed  to  resemble  a  petticoat  spread  on  the  ground, 
embroidered  with  figures  of  gold  and  silver.  His  imperial  majesty  spoke 
often  to  me,  and  I  returned  answers :  but  neither  of  us  could  understand  a 
syllable.  There  were  several  of  his  priests  and  lawyers  present  (as  I  con- 
jectured by  their  habits),  who  were  commanded  to  address  themselves  to 
me ;  and  I  spoke  to  them  in  as  many  languages  as  I  had  the  least  smatter- 
ing of,  which  were  High  and  Low  Dutch,  Latin,  French,  Spanish,  Italian, 
and  Lingua  Franca ;  but  all  to  no  purpose. 

After  about  two  hours  the  court  retired ;  and  I  was  left  with  a  strong 
guard,  to  prevent  the  impertinence,  and  probably  the  malice,  of  the  rabble ; 
who  were  very  impatient  to  crowd  about  me  as  near  as  they  durst ;  and 
some  of  them  had  the  impudence  to  shoot  their  arrows  at  me,  as  I  sat  on 
the  ground  by  the  door  of  my  house,  whereof  one  very  narrowly  missed  my 
left  eye.  But  the  colonel  ordered  six  of  the  ringleaders  to  be  seized,  and 
thought  no  punishment  so  proper  as  to  deliver  them  bound  into  my  hands; 
which  some  of  his  soldiers  accordingly  did,  pushing  them  forwards  with  the 
butt-ends  of  their  pikes  into  my  reach.  I  took  them  all  in  my  right  hand, 
put  five  of  them  into  my  coat-pocket,  and  as  to  the  sixth,  I  made  a  counte- 
nance as  if  1  would  eat  him  alive.  The  poor  man  squalled  terribly,  and 
the  colonel  and  his  officers  were  in  much  pain,  especially  when  they  saw 
me  take  out  my  penknife :  but  I  soon  put  them  out  of  fear ;  for  looking 
mildly,  and  immediately  cutting  the  strings  he  was  bound  with,  I  sat  him 
gently  on  the  ground,  and  away  he  ran.  I  treated  the  rest  in  the  same 
manner,  taking  them  one  by  one  out  of  my  pocket ;  and  I  observed  both 
the  soldiers  and  people  were  highly  delighted  at  this  mark  of  my  clemency, 
which  was  represented  very  much  to  my  advantage  at  court. 

Towards  night  I  got  with  some  difficulty  into  my  house,  where  I  lay  on 
the  ground,  and  continued  to  do  so  about  a  fortnight ;  during  which  time, 
the  emperor  gave  orders  to  have  a  bed  prepared  for  me.  Six  hundred  beds 
of  the  common  measure  were  brought  in  carriages,  and  worked  up  in  my 
house ;  a  hundred  and  fifty  of  their  beds,  sewn  together,  made  up  the 
breadth  and  length  ;  and  these  were  four  double,  which,  however,  kept  me 
but  very  indifferently  from  the  hardness  of  the  floor,  that  was  of  smooth 
stone.  By  the  same  computation  they  provided  me  with  sheets,  blankets, 
and  coverlets,  tolerable  enough  for  one  who  had  been  so  long  inured  to 
hardships. 


SWIFT.  495 


Next  we  shall  accompany  Gulliver  upon  an  adventure  of  a 
diametrically  opposite  nature,  his  "  Voyage  to  Brobdingnag: " 

It  was  about  twelve  at  noon,  and  a  servant  brought  in  dinner.  It  was 
only  one  substantial  dish  of  meat  (fit  for  the  plain  condition  of  a  husband- 
man), in  a  dish  of  about  four-and-twenty  feet  diameter.  The  company 
were,  the  farmer  and  his  wife,  three  children,  and  an  old  grandmother. 
When  they  were  sat  down,  the  farmer  placed  me  at  some  distance  from 
him  on  the  table,  which  was  thirty  feet  high  from  the  floor.  I  was  in  a 
terrible  fright,  and  kept  as  far  as  1  could  from  the  edge,  for  fear  of  falling. 
The  wife  minced  a  bit  of  meat,  then  crumbled  some  bread  on  a  trencher, 
and  placed  it  before  me.  I  made  her  a  low  bow,  took  out  my  knife  and 
fork,  and  fell  to  eat,  which  gave  them  exceeding  delight.  The  mistress 
sent  her  maid  for  a  small  dram  cup,  which  held  about  two  gallons,  and 
filled  it  with  drink ;  I  took  up  the  vessel  with  much  difficulty  in  both 
hands,  and  in  a  most  respectful  manner  drank  to  her  ladyship's  health, 
expressing  the  words  as  loud  as  I  could  in  English,  which  made  the  com- 
pany laugh  so  heartily  that  I  was  almost  deafened  with  the  noise.  This 
liquor  tasted  like  a  small  cider,  and  was  not  unpleasant. 

Then  the  master  made  me  a  sign  to  come  to  his  trencher's  side ;  but  as  I 
walked  on  the  table,  being  at  great  surprise  all  the  time,  as  the  indulgent 
reader  will  easily  conceive  and  excuse,  I  happened  to  stumble  against  a 
crust,  and  fell  flat  on  my  face,  but  received  no  hurt.  I  got  up  immediately, 
and  observing  the  good  people  to  be  in  much  concern,  1  took  my  hat 
(which  1  held  under  my  arm  out  of  good  manners),  and  waving  it  over  my 
head,  gave  three  huzzas,  to  show  I  had  got  no  mischief  by  the  fall.  But 
advancing  forwards  towards  my  master  (as  I  shall  henceforth  call  him),  his 
youngest  son,  who  sat  next  to  him,  an  arch  boy  of  about  ten  years  old,  took 
me  up  by  the  legs,  and  held  me  so  high  in  the  air  that  I  trembled  in  every 
limb ;  but  his  father  snatched  me  from  him,  and  at  the  same  time  gave  him 
such  a  box  on  the  left  ear  as  would  have  felled  an  European  troop  of  horse 
to  the  earth,  ordering  him  to  be  taken  from  the  table.  But  being  afraid 
the  boy  might  owe  me  a  spite,  and  well  remembering  how  mischievous  all 
children  among  us  naturally  are  to  sparrows,  rabbits,  young  kittens,  and 
puppy  dogs,  I  fell  on  my  knees,  and  pointing  to  the  boy,  made  my  master 
to  understand  as  well  as  I  could  that  i  desired  his  son  might  be  pardoned. 
The  father  complied,  and  the  lad  took  his  seat  again,  whereupon  I  went  to 
him  and  kissed  his  hand,  which  my  master  took  and  made  him  stroke  me 
gently  with  it. 

In  the  midst  of  dinner  my  mistress's  favorite  cat  leaped  into  her  lap.  I 
heard  a  noise  behind  me  like  that  of  a  dozen  stocking-weavers  at  work ; 
and  turning  my  head,  I  found  it  proceeded  from  the  purring  of  that  ani- 
mal, who  seemed  to  be  three  times  larger  than  an  ox,  as  1  computed  by  the 
view  of  her  head  and  one  of  her  paws,  while  her  mistress  was  feeding  and 
stroking  her.  The  fierceness  of  this  creature's  countenance  altogether  dis- 
composed me ;  though  I  stood  at  the  farther  end  of  the  table,  about  fifty  feet 
off,  and  though  my  mistress  held  her  fast  for  fear  she  might  give  a  spring 
and  seize  me  in  her  talons.  But  it  happened  there  was  no  danger,  for  the 
cat  took  not  the  least  notice  of  me,  when  my  master  placed  me  within  three 
yards  of  her.  I  walked  with  intrepidity  five  or  six  times  before  the  very 
head  of  the  cat,  and  came  within  half  a  yard  of  her ;  whereupon  she  drew 
herself  back,  as  if  she  were  more  afraid  of  me.  I  had  less  apprehension 
concerning  the  dogs,  whereof  three  or  four  came  into  the  room,  as  it  is 


496  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

usual  in  farmers'  houses ;  one  of  which  was  a  mastiff,  equal  in  bulk  to  four 
elephants,  and  a  greyhound  somewhat  taller  than  the  mastiff,  but  not  so 
large. 

When  dinner  was  almost  done,  the  nurse  came  in  with  a  child  of  a  year 
old  in  her  arms,  who  immediately  spied  me,  and  began  a  squall  that  you 
might  have  heard  from  London  Bridge  to  Chelsea,  after  the  usual  oratory 
of  infants,  to  get  me  for  a  plaything.  The  mother,  out  of  pure  indulgence, 
took  me  up  and  put  me  towards  the  child,  who  presently  seized  me  by  the 
middle  and  got  my  head  into  his  mouth,  where  1  roared  so  loud  that  the 
urchin  was  frightened,  and  let  me  drop,  and  I  should  infallibly  have  broken 
my  neck  if  the  mother  had  not  held  her  apron  under  me. 

"  Swift's  wit  was  the  wit  of  sense.  The  ludicrous  arises  out  of  his 
keen  sense  of  impropriety,  his  soreness  and  impatience  of  the  least 
absurdity.  He  separates,  with  a  severe  and  caustic  air,  truth  from 
falsehood,  folly  from  wisdom,  'shews  vice  her  own  image,  scorn  her 
own  feature;'  and  it  is  the  force,  the  precision,  and  the  honest 
abruptness  with  which  the  separation  is  made,  that  excites  our 
surprise,  our  admiration,  and  laughter.  He  sets  a  mark  of  repro- 
bation on  that  which  offends  good  sense  and  good  manners  which 
cannot  be  mistaken,  and  which  holds  it  up  to  our  ridicule  and  con- 
tempt ever  after.  His  occasional  disposition  to  trifling  was  a  relax- 
ation from  the  excessive  earnestness  of  his  mind.  His  better  genius 
was  his  spleen.  It  was  the  biting  acrimony  of  his  temper  that 
sharpened  his  other  faculties.  The  truth  of  his  perceptions  produced 
the  pointed  coruscations  of  his  wit;  his  playful  irony  was  the  result 
of  inward  bitterness  of  thought ;  his  imagination  was  the  product  of 
the  literal,  dry,  incorrigible  tenaciousness  of  his  understanding. 

"  Swift  endeavored  to  escape  from  the  persecution  of  realities 
into  the  regions  of  fancy,  and  invented  his  Liliputians  and  Brob- 
dignagians,  Yahoos  and  Houynhyms,  as  a  diversion  to  the  more 
painful  knowledge  of  the  world  around  him  :  they  only  made  him 
laugh,  while  men  and  women  made  him  angry.  His  feverish 
impatience  made  him  view  the  infirmities  of  that  great  baby  the 
world  with  the  same  scrutinizing  glance  and  jealous  irritability 
that  a  parent  regards  the  failings  of  its  offspring.  In  other  respects, 
and  except  from  the  sparkling  effervescence  of  his  gall.  Swift's  brain 
was  as  '  dry  as  the  remainder  biscuit  after  a  voyage.'  " 

*  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets,  by  William  Hazlitt. 


JOSEPH    ADDISON. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON  was  born  at  Milston,  near  Ambros-Bury, 
Wiltshire,  May  1,  1672.  Receiving  the  rudiments  of  his  edu- 
cation in  neighboring  schools,  he  was  then  sent  to  the  Charter 
House,  whence,  at  fifteen,  he  departed  for  the  university,  carry- 
ing with  him  "  a  classical  taste,  and  a  stock  of  learning  which 
would  have  done  honor  to  a  master  of  arts."  He  first  entered 
Queen's  College,  Oxford ;  but  had  not  been  there  many  months 
when  some  of  his  Latin  verses  so  pleased  Dr.  Lancaster,  dean 
of  Magdalene  College,  that,  through  the  latter's  influence,  his 
removal  to  that  great  and  opulent  corporation  was  effected  in 
1689.  Here  he  resided  during  ten  years,  distinguishing  him- 
self among  his  fellow-students  by  his  amiability  and  modesty 
of  deportment,  by  his  assiduity  and  success  in  study,  and  by  the 
purity  of  style  and  the  melodiousness  of  his  Latin  poems. 

Addison's  first  attempt  in  English  verse  was  a  complimentary 
address  to  Dry  den,  who  was  favorably  impressed  with  the  per- 
formance, and  immediately  took  the  young  poet  into  favor. 
Shortly  afterwards,  so  rapidly  had  Addison  grown  in  the  esti- 
mation of  his  illustrious  patron,  the  latter  intrusted  him  with 
preparing  a  critical  preface  to  his  own  translation  of  the 
41  Georgics." 

Addison  was  about  this  time  (1C99)  diverted  from  what 
seemed  his  probable  destination,  namely,  the  clerical  profession, 
by  the  interference  of  Charles  Montagu,  chancellor  of  the 
exchequer,  who  determined  on  fitting  this  promising  collegian 
for  a  diplomatist,  and  who  for  this  purpose  procured  for  him  a 
pension  of  £300  a  year,  and  sent  him  abroad  to  acquire  a 
knowledge  of  the  French  tongue,  and  to  enrich  himself  by  for- 
eign travel.  The  first  of  these  objects  was  attained  by  a  resi- 
dence of  a  few  months  at  Blois ;  after  which,  in  the  accomplish- 
ment of  the  second,  he  visited  Marseilles,  Genoa,  Milan,  Venice, 
42*  2G  497 


498  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Rome,  Naples,  Sienna,  Florence,  and  parts  of  Switzerland,  Ger- 
many, and  Holland,  returning  home  in  1703. 

During  these  three  years  of  travel  and  study,  besides  the 
classic  and  gothic  wonders  of  art  and  architecture,  the  enno- 
bling spectacles  of  nature,  the  spots  of  historic  interest,  and  the 
imposing  ceremonies  of  foreign  civilizations  which  met  his  eye, 
informed  his  mind,  and  expanded  his  sympathies,  he  saw  and 
conversed  with  eminent  philosophers,  statesmen,  and  literati, 
among  them  Malebranche  and  Boileau  ;  wrote  several  Epistles 
and  his  treatise  on  Medals;  'and,  doubtless,  received  the  hint, 
and  actually  completed  four  acts,  of  his  tragedy  of  Colo. 

For  several  months  after  his  return,  his  powerful  whig 
patrons — Lords  Manchester,  Somers,  and  Halifax  (Montagu) — 
having,  in  the  meantime,  lost  their  offices  by  the  accession  of 
Queen  Anne,  Addison  fell  into  great  pecuniary  embarrassment; 
and  when  the  tory  Lord  Treasurer  found  it  necessary  to  seek 
out  some  person  capable  of  commemorating  the  recent  battle  of 
Blenheim,  it  was  in  a  garret,  up  three  pairs  of  stairs,  over  a 
small  shop  in  the  Haymarket,  that  such  a  poet  was  discovered, 
in  the  person  of  Addison.  The  Campaign,  which  was  greatly 
admired  both  by  the  minister  and  the  public,  was  unique  in  its 
manly  and  realistic  treatment  of  the  subject,  and  its  rational 
praise  of  Marlborough.  Soon  after  was  published  the  Narra- 
tive of  Travels  in  Italy;  and  this  was  shortly  followed  by  the 
sprightly  opera  of  Rosamond. 

In  1706,  the  whigs  having  returned  to  power,  Addison  was 
made  under-secretary  of  state,  and  two  years  later  sat  for 
Malmsbury  in  the  House  of  Commons.  "  But  this  was  not  the 
field  for  him.  The  bashfulness  of  his  nature  made  his  wit  and 
eloquence  useless  in  debate.  He  once  rose,  but  could  not  over- 
come his  diffidence,  and  ever  after  remained  silent."  At  the 
close  of  1708,  in  consequence  of  an  appointment  as  chief  secre- 
tary to  the  lord-lieutenant  of  Ireland,  Addison  removed  to 
Dublin.  While  here  he  served  also  as  a  member  of  the  Irish 
parliament.  About  this  time,  too,  (1709,)  Addison  began  hia 
contributions  to  the  "  Tattler,"  a  periodical  just  started  by  his 
friend  Richard  Steele.  This  soon  became,  principally  through 
the  rare  treasures  of  Addison 's  fifty  or  sixty  numbers,  the  most 
popular  publication  of  its  sort  ever  printed.  It  was  withdrawn, 


ADDISON.  499 

however,  in  1711,  and   was  succeeded  the   next  year  by   the 
"  Spectator." 

"  The  Spectator  himself  was  conceived  and  drawn  by  Addison  ; 
and  it  is  not  easy  to  doubt  that  the  portrait  was  meant  to  be  in 
some  features  a  likeness  of  the  painter.  The  plan  of  the  '  Specta- 
tor '  must  be  allowed  to  be  both  original  and  eminently  happy. 
Every  valuable  etisay  in  the  series  may  be  read  with  pleasure  sep- 
arately ;  yet  the  five  or  six  hundred  essays  form  a  whole,  and  a 
whole  which  has  the  interest  of  a  novel.  It  must  be  remembered, 
too,  that  at  that  time  no  novel  giving  a  lively  and  powerful  picture 
of  the  common  life  and  manners  of  England  had  appeared.  The 
narrative,  therefore,  which  connects  together  the  '  Spectator's ' 
essays,  gave  to  our  ancestors  their  first  taste  of  an  exquisite  and 
untried  pleasure.  We  have  not  the  least  doubt  that,  if  Addison 
had  written  a  novel,  on  an  extensive  plan,  it  would  have  been 
superior  to  any  that  we  possess.  As  it  is,  he  is  entitled  to  be  con- 
sidered, not  only  as  the  greatest  of  the  English  essayists,  but  as  the 
forerunner  of  the  great  English  novelists."* 

The  "Spectator"  closed  its  career  toward  the  end  of  1712,  and 
to  the  "Guardian,"  which  succeeded  it,  Addison  lent  but  a  meager 
support;  for  he  was  at  this  time  engaged  in  completing  his  Cato. 
The  play  was  brought  out  in  1713,  in  Drury-lane  theatre,  amidsf 
tumultuous  and  universal  applause.  "  To  compare  it  with  the 
masterpieces  of  the  Attic  stage,  with  the  great  English  dramas  of 
the  time  of  Elizabeth,  or  even  with  the  productions  of  Schiller's 
manhood,  would  be  absurd  indeed.  Yet  it  contains  excellent  dia- 
logue and  declamation  ;  and,  among  plays  fashioned  on  the  French 
model,  must  be  allowed  to  rank  high;  not  indeed  with  Athalie, 
Zaire,  or  Saul,  but,  we  think,  not  below  Cinna ;  and  certainly  above 
any  other  English  tragedy  of  the  same  school,  above  many  of  the 
plays  of  Corneille,  Voltaire,  and  Alfieri,  and  above  some  plays  of 
Racine.  Be  this  as  it  may,  we  have  little  doubt  that  Cato  did  as 
much  as  the  'Tattlers/  'Spectators,'  and  'Freeholders'  united,  to 
raise  Addison 's  fame  among  his  contemporaries."* 

In  1714  Addison  added  an  eighth  volume  to  the  "Spectator," 
containing  "perhaps  the  finest  essays,  both  serious  and  playful, 
in  the  English  language."  In  the  interim  between  the  death  of 
Anne  and  the  arrival  of  George  I.,  Addison  filled  the  position  of 
secretary  to  the  lords  justices,  and  upon  the  accession  of  the  king 
he  again  went  to  Dublin  as  chief  secretary  to  the  lord  lieutenant. 
Not  the  least  agreeable  of  his  experiences  here  was  his  meeting 

*  Macaulay's  Essay  on  Addison. 


500  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


with  Swift,  and  the  consequent  renewal  of  their  former  friendly 
relations. 

The  year  1715  witnessed  Addison's  resignation  of  his  secretary- 
ship for  a  seat  at  the  Board  of  Trade,  the  acting  of  his  comedy  of  the 
Drummer,  the  editing  of  a  political  paper  called  the  "  Freeholder," 
and  a  final  estrangement  between  himself  and  Pope.  Two  years 
later  he  succeeded  to  the  acme  of  his  political  preferments,  having 
been  appointed  at  that  time  Secretary  of  State.  "He  owed  his 
elevation  to  his  popularity,  to  his  stainless  probity,  and  to  his 
literary  fame."  This  elevation,  however,  was  brief;  for  ill  health 
incapacitated  him  for  the  discharge  of  his  duties,  and  he  resigned 
the  next  year.  The  following  year  his  complaint  grew  worse,  cul- 
minating in  dropsy;  and  he  died,  June  17,  1719,  serenely  and 
hopefully,  exclaiming  with  his  last  breath  to  his  sori-in-law,  "See 
how  a  Christian  can  die !  " 

Addison's  reputation  as  a  poet  we  rest  upon  the  following  ex- 
tracts from  his  Cato. 

ACT  //.—SCENE  II.— The  Senate. 
Decius.  Caesar  sends  health  to  Cato. 

Cato.  Could  he  send  it 

To  Cato's  slaughter'd  friends,  it  would  be  welcome. 
Are  not  your  orders  to  address  the  senate? 

Decius.  My  business  is  with  Cato:   Caesar  sees 
The  straits  to  which  you  're  driven ;  and,  as  he  knows 
Cato's  high  worth,  is  anxious  for  your  life. 

Cato.  My  life  is  grafted  on  the  fate  of  Rome : 
Would  he  .save  Cato,  bid  him  spare  his  country. 
Tell  your  dictator  this ;  and  tell  him,  Cato 
Disdains  a  life  which  he  has  power  to  offer. 

Decius.  Koine  and  her  senators  submit  to  Csesar : 
Her  generals  and  her  consuls  are  no  more, 
Who  check'd  his  conquests,  and  denied  his  triumphs. 
Why  will  not  Cato  be  this  Ciesar's  friend? 

Cato.  Those  very  reasons  thou  hast  urged  forbid  it. 

Decius.  Cato,  I  've  orders  to  expostulate 
And  reason  with  you  as  from  friend  to  friend: 
Think  on  the  storm  that  gathers  o'er  your  head, 
And  threatens  every  hour  to  burst  upon  it ; 
Still  may  you  stand  high  in  your  country's  honors, 
Do  but  comply,  and  make  your  peace  with  Ciesar. 
Rome  will  reioice,  and  cast  its  eyes  on  Cato, 
As  on  the  sojond  of  mankind. 


ADDISON.  501 


Cato.  No  more ! 

I  must  not  think  oj"  life  on  such  conditions. 

Decius.  Csesar  is  well 'acquainted  with  your  virtues, 
And  therefore  sets  this  value  on  your  life : 
Let  him  but  know  the  price  of  Cato's  friendship, 
And  name  your  terms. 

Cato.  Bid  him  disband  his  legions, 

Kestore  the  commonwealth  to  liberty, 
Submit  his  actions  to  the  public  censure, 
And  stand  the  judgment  of  a  Roman  senate. 
Bid  him  do  this,  and  Cato  is  his  friend. 

Decius.  Cato,  the  world  talks  loudly  of  your  wisdom — 

Cato.  Kay  more,  tho'  Cato's  voice  was  ne'er  employ'd 
To  clear  the  guilty,  and  to  varnish  crimes, 
Myself  will  mount  the  rostrum  in  his  favor, 
And  strive  to  gain  his  pardon  from  the  people. 

Decius.  A  style  like  this  becomes  a  conqueror. 

Cato.  Decius,  a  style  like  this  becomes  a  Roman. 

Decius.  What  is  a  Roman,  that  is  Csesar's  foe  ? 

Cato.  Greater  than  Csesar :  he 's  a  friend  to  virtue. 

Decius.  Consider,  Cato,  you  're  in  Utica, 
And  at  the  head  of  your  own  little  senate; 
You  don't  now  thunder  iri  the  Capitol, 
With  all  the  mouths  of  Rome  to  second  you. 

Cato.  Let  him  consider  that,  who  drives  us  hither, 
'T  is  Caesar's  sword  has  made  Rome's  senate  little, 
And  thinn'd  its  ranks.    Alas !   thy  dazzled  eye 
Beholds  this  man  in  a  false  glaring  light, 
Which  conquest  and  success  have  thrown  upon  him; 
Didst  thou  but  view  him.  right,  thou  'dst  see  him  black 
With  murder,  treason,  sacrilege,  and  crimes 
That  strike  my  soul  with  horror  but  to  name  'em. 
1  know  thou  look'st  on  me,  as  on  a  wretch 
Beset  with  ills,  and  cover'tl  with  misfortunes : 
But,  by  the  gods  I  swear,  millions  of  worlds 
Should  never  buy  me  to  be  like  that  Caesar. 

Decius.  Does  Cato  send  this  answer  back  to  Csesar, 
For  all  his  generous  cares,  and  proffer'd  friendship? 

Cato.  His  cares  for  me  are  insolent  and  vain  : 
Presumptuous  man!  the  gods  take  care  of  Cato. 
Would  Caesar  show  the  greatness  of  his  soul, 
Bid  him  employ  his  care  for  these  my  friends, 
And  make  good  use  of  his  ill-gotten  power, 
By  shelt'ring  men  much  better  than  himself. 


502  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Decius.  Your  high  unconquer'd  heart  makes  you  forget 
You  are  a  man.     You  rush  on  your  destruction. 
But  I  have  done.     When  I  relate  hereafter 
The  tale  of  this  unhappy  embassy, 
All  Rome  will  be  in  tears. 

ACT  IF.— SCENE  IV. 

Portius.  Misfortune  on  misfortune!   grief  on  grief! 
My  brother  Marcus — 

Cato.  Hah!  what  has  he  done? 

Has  he  forsook  his  post  ?  has  he  given  way  ? 
Did  he  look  tamely  on,  and  let  'em  pass? 

Portius.  Scarce  had  I  left  my  father,  but  I  met  him 
Borne  on  the  shields  of  his  surviving  soldiers, 
Breathless  and  pale,  and  cover'd  o'er  with  wounds. 
Long  at  the  head  of  his  few  faithful  friends, 
He  stood  the  shock  of  a  whole  host  of  foes ; 
Till,  obstinately  brave,  and  bent  on  death, 
Opprest  with  multitudes,  he  greatly  fell. 

Cato.  I'm  satisfy'd. 

Portius.  Nor  did  he  fall  before 

His  sword  had  pierc'd  through  the  false  heart  of  Syphax. 
Yonder  he  lie.s.     I  saw  the  hoary  traitor 
Grin  in  the  pangs  of  death,  and  bite  the  ground. 

Cato.  Thanks  to  the  gods !   my  boy  has  done  his  duty 
— Portius,  when  I  am  dead,  be  sure  thou  place 
His  urn  near  mine. 

Portius.  Long  may  they  keep  asunder ! 

Lucius.  O  Cato !  arm  thy  soul  with  all  its  patience ; 
See  where  the  corpse  of  thy  dead  son  approaches ! 
The  citizens  and  senators,  alarm'd, 
Have  gather'd  round  it,  and  attend  it  weeping. 

Cato,  meeting  the  corpse. 

Welcome,  my  son !  here  lay  him  down,  my  friends, 
Full  in  my  sight,  that  I  may  view  at  leisure 
The  bloody  corpse,  and  count  those  glorious  wounds. 
— How  beautiful  is  death,  when  earn'd  by  virtue ! 
Who  would  not  be  that  youth  ?  what  pity  is  it 
That  we  can  die  but  once  to  save  our  country ! 
—Why  sits  this  sadness  on  your  brows,  my  friends  ? 
I  should  have  blush'd  if  Cato's  house  had  stood 
Secure,  and  flourish'd  in  a  civil  war. 
— Portius,  behold  thy  brother,  and  remember 
Thy  life  is  not  thy  own,  when  Rome  demands  it. 


ADDISON.  503 


Juba.  Was  ever  man  like  this?  [Aside. 

Cato.  Alas  t  my  friends ; 

Why  mourn  you  thus?  let  not  a  private  loss 
Afflict  your  hearts.    'Tis  Rome  requires  our  tears. 
The  mistress  of  the  world,  the  seat  of  empire, 
The  nurse  of  heroes,  the  delight  of  Gods, 
That  humbled  the  proud  tyrants  of  the  earth, 
And  set  the  nations  free,  Rome  is  110  more. 
O  liberty  !    O  virtue !     O  my  country ! 

As  illustrative  of  Addison's  more  distinctive  literary  char- 
acter— that  of  a  prose  writer — we  offer  the  following  extracts 
from  the  Spectator. 

No.  440.    FRIDAY,  JULY  25. 

•fc-£-£####-3{-## 

"  Mr.  Spectator :  We  are  glad  to  find  that  you  approve  the  establishment 
which  we  have  here  made  for  the  retrieving  of  good  manners  and  agree- 
able conversation,  and  shall  use  our  best  endeavors  so  to  improve  ourselves 
in  this  our  summer  retirement  that  we  may  next  winter  serve  as  patterns 
to  the  town.  But  to  the  end  that  this  our  institution  may  be  no  less  advan- 
tageous to  the  public  than  to  ourselves,  we  shall  communicate  to  you  one 
week  of  our  proceedings,  desiring  you  at  the  same  time,  if  you  see  anything 
faulty  in  them,  to  favor  us  with  your  admonitions. 

"On  Monday  the  assembly  was  in  very  good  humor,  having  received 
some  recruits  of  French  claret  that  morning ;  when  unluckily,  towards  the 
middle  of  the  dinner,  one  of  the  company  swore  at  his  servant  in  a  very 
rough  manner  for  having  put  too  much  water  in  his  wine.  Upon  which 
the  president  of  the  day,  who  is  always  the  mouth  of  the  company,  after 
having  convinced  him  of  the  impertinence  of  his  passion,  and  the  insult  it 
had  made  upon  the  company,  ordered  his  man  to  take  him  from  the  table 
and  convey  him  to  the  infirmary.  There  was  but  one  more  sent  away  that 
day ;  this  is  a  gentleman  who"  is  reckoned  by  some  persons  one  of  the 
greatest  wits,  and  by  others  one  of  the, greatest  boobies  about  town.  This 
you  will  say  is  a  strange  character,  but  what  makes  it  stranger  yet,  it  is  a 
very  true  one,  for  he  is  perpetually  the  reverse  of  himself,  being  always 
merry  or  dull  to  excess.  We  brought  him  hither  to  divert  us,  which  he 
did  very  well  upon  the  road,  having  lavished  away  as  much  wit  and  laugh- 
ter upon  the  hackney  coachman  as  might  have  served  him  during  his  whole 
stay  here,  had  it  been  duly  managed.  He  had  been  lumpish  for  two  or 
three  days,  but  was  so  far  connived  at,  in  hopes  of  recovery,  that  we  dis- 
patched one  of  the  briskest  fellows  among  the  brotherhood  into  the  infir- 
mary for  having  told  him  at  table  he  was  not  merry.  But  our  president 
observing  that  he  indulged  himself  in  this  long  fit  of  stupidity,  and  con- 
struing it  as  a  contempt  of  the  college,  ordered  him  to  retire  into  the  place 
prepared  for  such  companions.  He  was  no  sooner  got  into  it  but  his  wit 
and  mirth  returned  upon  him  in  so  violent  a  manner  that  he  shook  the 
whole  infirmary  with  the  noise  of  it,  and  had  so  good  an  effect  upon  the 
rest  of  the  patients  that  he  brought  them  all  out  to  dinner  with  him  the 
next  dav. 


504  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

11  On  Tuesday  we  were  no  sooner  sat  down  but  one  of  the  company  com- 
plained that  his  head  ached ;  upon  which  another  asked  him,  in  an  insolent 
manner,  what  he  did  there  then ;  this  insensibly  grew  into  some  warm 
words ;  so  that  the  president,  in  order  to  keep  the  peace,  gave  directions  to 
take  them  both  from  the  table  and  lodge  them  in  the  infirmary.  Not  long 
after,  another  of  the  company  telling  us  he  knew  by  a  pain  in  his  shoulder 
that  we  should  have  some  rain,  the  president  ordered  him  to  be  removed, 
and  placed  as  a  weather-glass  in  the  apartment  above  mentioned. 

"  On  Wednesday,  a  gentleman  having  received  a  letter,  written  in  a 
woman's  hand,  and  changing  color  twice  or  thrice  as  he  read  it,  desired 
leave  to  retire  into  the  infirmary.  The  president  consented,  but  denied 
him  the  use  of  pen,  ink,  and  paper  till  such  time  as  he  had  slept  upon  it. 
One  of  the  company  being  seated  at  the  lower  end  of  the  table,  and  discov- 
ering his  secret  discontent  by  finding  fault  with  every  dish  that  was  served 
up,  and  refusing  to  laugh  at  anything  that  was  said,  the  president  told  him 
that  he  found  he  was  in  an  uneasy  seat,  and  desired  him  to  accommodate 
himself  better  in  the  infirmary.  After  dinner  a  very  honest  fellow  chanc- 
ing to  let  a  pun  fall  from  him,  his  neighbor  cried  out,  'to  the  infirmary ;' 
at  the  same  time  pretending  to  be  sick  at  it,  or  having  the  same  natural 
antipathy  to  a  pun  which  some  have  to  a  cat.  This  produced  a  long  debate. 
Upon  the  whole  the  punster  was  acquitted  and  his  neighbor  sent  off. 

"  On  Thursday  there  was  but  one  delinquent.  This  was  a  gentleman  of 
strong  voice,  but  weak  understanding.  He  had  unluckily  engaged  himself 
in  a  dispute  with  a  man  of  excellent  sense,  but  of  a  modest  elocution.  The 
man  of  heat  replied  to  every  answer  of  his  antagonist  with  a  louder  note 
than  ordinary,  and  only  raise'd  his  voice  when  he  should  have  enforced  his 
argument.  Finding  himself  at  length  driven  to  an  absurdity,  he  still  rea- 
soned in  a  more  clamorous  and  contused  manner,  and  to  make  the  greater 
impression  upon  his  hearers,  concluded  with  a  loud  thump  upon  the  table. 
The  president  immediately  ordered  him  to  be  carried  off  and  dieted  with 
water-gruel,  till  such  time  as  he  should  be  sufficiently  weakened  for  conver- 
sation. 

"  On  Friday  there  passed  very  little  remarkable,  saving  only  that  several 
petitions  were  read  of  the  persons  in  custody,  desiring  to  be  released  from 
their  confinement,  and  vouching  for  one  another's  good  behavior  for  the 
future. 

"  On  Saturday  we  received  many  excuses  from  persons  who  had  found 
themselves  in  an  unsociable  temper,  and  had  voluntarily  shut  themselves 
up.  The  infirmary  was  indue  1  never  so  full  as  on  this  day,  which  I  was  at 
some  loss  to  account  for,  till  upon  my  going  abroad  I  observed  that  it  was 
an  easterly  wind." 
*  •&  *  -*  -x-  -55-  *  •&  -x-  # 

C. 
No.  441.    SATURDAY,  JULY  26. 

Man,  considered  in  himself,  is  a  very  helpless  and  a  very  wretched  being. 
He  is  subject  every  moment  to  the  greatest  calamities  and  misfortunes.  He 
is  beset  with  dangers  on  all  sides,  and  may  become  unhappy  by  numberless 
casualties,  which  he  could  not  foresee,  nor  have  prevented  had  he  foreseen 
them. 

It  is  our  comfort,  while  we  are  obnoxious  to  so  many  accidents,  that  we 
are  under  the  care  of  one  who  directs  contingencies,  and  has  in  his  hands 
the  management  of  everything  that  is  capable  of  annoying  or  offending 


ADDISON.  505 


us ;  who  knows  the  assistance  we  stand  in  need  of,  and  is  always  ready  to 
bestow  it  on  those  who  aslfit  of  him. 

The  natural  homage,  which  such  a  creature  bears  to  so  infinitely  wise 
and  good  a  being,  is  a  firm  reliance  on  him  for  the  blessings  and  conveni- 
encies  of  life ;  an  habitual  trust  in  him  for  deliverance  out  of  all  such  dan- 
gers and  difficulties  as  may  befall  us. 

The  man,  who  always  lives  in  this  disposition  of  mind,  has  not  the  same 
dark  and  melancholy  views  of  human  nature,  as  he  who  considers  himself 
abstractedly  from  this  relation  to  the  Supreme  Being.  At  the  same  time 
that  he  reflects  upon  his  own  weakness  and  imperfection,  he  comforts  him- 
self with  the  contemplation  of  those  divine  attributes,  which  are  employed 
for  his  safety  and  his  welfare.  He  finds  his  Avant  of  foresight  made  up  by 
the  omniscience  of  him  who  is  his  support.  He  is  not  sensible  of  his  own 
want  of  strength,  when  he  knows  that  his  helper  is  almighty.  Tn  short, 
the  person  who  has  a  firm  trust  on  the  Supreme  Being  is  powerful  in  his 
power,  wise  by  his  wisdom,  happy  by  his  happiness.  He  reaps  the  benefit 
of  every  divine  attribute,  and  loses  his  own  insufficiency  in  the  fulness  of 
infinite  perfection. 

To  make  our  lives  more  easy  to  us,  we  are  commanded  to  put  our  trust 
in  him,  who  is  thus  able  to  relieve  and  succor  us ;  the  divine  goodness  hav- 
ing made  such  a  reliance  a  duty,  notwithstanding  wre  should  have  been  mis- 
erable had  it  been  forbidden  us. 

Among  several  motives,  which  might  be  made  use  of  to  recommend  this 
duty  to  us,  I  shall  only  take  notice  of  these  that  follow. 

The  first  and  strongest  is,  that  we  aTe  promised  He  will  not  fail  those  who 
put  their  trust  in  him. 

But  without  considering  the  supernatural  blessing  which  accompanies 
this  duty,  we  may  observe  that  it  has  a  natural  tendency  to  its  own  reward, 
or  in  other  words,  that  this  firm  trust  and  confidence  in  the  great  disposer 
of  all  things  contributes  very  much  to  the  getting  clear  of  any  affliction,  or 
to  the  bearing  it  manfully.  A  person  who  believes  he  has  his  succor  at 
hand,  and  that  he  acts  in  the  sight  of  his  friend,  often  exerts  himself  be- 
yond his  abilities,  and  does  wonders  that  are  not  to  be  matched  by  one  who 
is  not  animated  with  such  a  confidence  of  success.  I  could  produce  in- 
stances from  history,  of  generals,  who  out  of  a  belief  that  they  were  under 
the  protection  of  some  invisible  assistant,  did  not  only  encourage  their  sol- 
diers to  do  their  utmost,  but  have  acted  themselves  beyond  what  they  would 
have  done,  had  they  not  been  inspired  by  such  a  belief.  I  might  in  the 
same  manner  show  how  such  a  trust  in  the  assistance  of  an  almighty  being 
naturally  produces  patience,  hope,  cheerfulness,  and  all  other  dispositions 
of  mind  that  alleviate  those  calamities  we  are  not  able  to  remove. 

The  practice  of  this  virtue  administers  great  comfort  to  the  mind  of  man 
in  times  of  poverty  and  nfiliction,  but  most  of  all  in  the  hour  of  death. 
When  the  soul  is  hoverin  ;•  in  the  last  moments  of  its  separation,  when  it 
is  just  entering  on  another  state  of  existence,  to  converse  with  scenes  and 
objects  and  companions  that  are  altogether  new,  what  can  support  her 
under  such  tremblings  of  thought,  such  fear,  such  anxiety,  such  apprehen- 
sions, but  the  casting  of  all  her  cares  upon  him  who  first  gave  her  being, 
who  has  conducted  her  through  one  stage  of  it,  and  will  be  always  with  her 
to  guide  and  comfort  her  in  her  progress  through  eternity. 

David  has  very  beautifully  represented  this  steady  reliance  on  God  Al- 
mighty in  his  twenty-third  psalm,  which  is  a  kind  of  Pastoral  Hymn,  and 
43 


506  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

fitted  with  those  allusions  which  are  usual  in  that  kind  of  writing.  As  the 
poetry  is  very  exquisite,  I  shall  present  my  reader  with  the  following  trans- 
lation of  it. 

The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare, 
And  feed  me  with  a  shepherd's  care: 
His  presence  shall  my  wants  supply, 
And  guard  me  with  a  watchful  eye ; 
My  noon-day  walks  he  shall  attend, 
And  all  my  midnight  hours  defend. 

When  in  the  sultry  glebe  I  faint, 
Or  on  the  thirsty  mountain  pant; 
To  fertile  vales  and  dewy  meads, 
My  weary  wand'ring  steps  he  leads ; 
Where  peaceful  rivers  soft  and  slow, 
Amid  the  verdant  landscape  flow. 

Tho'  in  the  paths  of  death  I  tread, 
With  gloomy  horrors  overspread; 
My  steadfast  heart  shall  fear  no  ill, 
For  thou,  O  Lord,  art  with  me  still : 
Thy  friendly  crook  shall  give  me  aid, 
And  guide  me  through  the  dreadful  shade. 

Tho'  in  a  bare  and  rugged  way, 
Through  devious  lonely  wilds  I  stray, 
Thy  bounty  shall  my  pains  beguile: 
The  barren  wilderness  shall  smile 
With  sudden  greens  and  herbage  crown'd, 
And  streams  shall  murmur  all  around. 

C. 

No.  463.    THURSDAY,  AUGUST  21. 
##  #  *  *  •*  *  #  *  * 

I  was,  methought,  replaced  in  my  study,  and  seated  in  my  elbow  chair, 
where  I  had  indulged  the  foregoing  speculations,  with  my  lamp  burning 
by  me,  as  usual.  Whilst  I  was  here  meditating  on 'several  subjects  of 
morality,  and  considering  the  nature  of  many  virtues  and  vices,  as  mate- 
rials for  those  discourses  with  which  I  daily  entertain  the  public;  I  saw, 
methought,  a  pair  of  golden  scales  hanging  by  a  chain  in  the  same  metal 
over  the  table  that  stood  before  me ;  when,  on  a  sudden,  there  were  great 
heaps  of  weights  thrown  down  on  each  side  of  them.  I  found  upon  exam- 
ining these  weights,  they  shewed  the  value  of  everything  that  is  in  esteem 
among  men.  I  made  an  essay  of  them,  by  putting  the  weight  of  wisdom 
in  one  scale,  and  that  of  riches  in  another,  upon  which  the  latter,  to  shew 
its  comparative  lightness,  immediately  "  flew  up  and  kick'd  the  beam." 

But  before  I  proceed,  I  must  inform  my  reader  that  these  weights  did 
not  exert  their  natural  gravity  till  they  were  laid  in  the  golden  balance, 
insomuch  that  I  could  not  guess  which  was  light  or  heavy,  whilst  I  held 
them  in  my  hand.  This  I  found  by  several  instances,  for  upon  my  laying 
a  weight  in  one  of  the  scales,  which  was  inscribed  by  the  word  Eternity ; 
though  I  threw  in  that  of  time,  prosperity,  affliction,  wealth,  poverty,  inter- 
est, success,  with  many  other  weights,  which  in  my  hand  seemed  very  pon- 
derous, they  were  not  able  to  stir  the  opposite  balance,  nor  could  they  have 
prevailed,  though  assisted  with  the  weight  of  the  sun,  the  stars,  and  the 
earth. 


ADDISON.  507 


Upon  emptying  the  scales,  I  laid  several  titles  and  honors,  with  pomps, 
triumphs,  and  many  weighfs  of  the  like  nature,  in  one  of  them,  and  seeing 
a  little  glittering  weight  lie  by  me,  I  threw  it  accidentally  into  the  other 
scale,  when,  to  my  great  surprise,  it  proved  so  exact  a  counterpoise,  that  it 
kept  the  balance  in  an  equilibrium.  This  little  glittering  weight  was 
inscribed  upon  the  edges  of  it  with  the  word  Vanity.  I  found  there  were 
several  other  weights  which  were  equally  heavy,  and  exact  counterpoises 
to  one  another ;  a  few  of  them  I  tried,  as  avarice  and  poverty,  riches  and 
content,  with  some  others. 

There  were  likewise  several  weights  that  were  of  the  same  figure,  and 
seemed  to  correspond  with  each  other,  but  were  entirely  different  when 
thrown  into  the  scales,  as  religion  and  hypocrisy,  pedantry  and  learning, 
wit  and  vivacity,  superstition  and  devotion,  gravity  and  wisdom,  with  many 
others. 

I  observed  one  particular  weight  lettered  on  both  sides,  and  upon  apply- 
ing myself  to  the  reading  of  it,  1  found  on  one  side  written,  "  In  the  dialect 
of  men,"  and  underneath  it,  "Calamities;"  on  the  other  side  was  written, 
"  In  the  language  of  the  gods,"  and  underneath,  "  Blessings."  I  found  the 
intrinsic  value  of  this  weight  to  be  much  greater  than  I  imagined,  for  it 
overpowered  health,  wealth,  good-fortune,  and  many  other  weights,  which 
were  much  more  ponderous  in  my  hand  than  the  other. 

There  is  a  saying  among  the  Scotch,  that  "  an  ounce  of  mother  is  worth 
a  pound  of  clergy  ; "  I  was  sensible  of  the  truth  of  this  saying,  when  I  saw 
the  difference  between  the  weight  of  natural  parts  and  that  of  learning. 
The  observation  which  I  made  upon  these  two  weights  opened  to  me  a  new 
field  of  discoveries,  for  notwithstanding  the  weight  of  natural  parts  was 
much  heavier  than  that  of  learning ;  I  observed  that  it  Aveighed  an  hun- 
dred times  heavier  than  it  did  before,  when  I  put  learning  into  the  same 
scale  with  it.  I  made  the  same  observation  upon  faith  and  morality  ;  for 
notwithstanding  the  latter  outweighed  the  former  separately,  it  received  a 
thousand  times  more  additional  weight  from  its  conjunction  with  the  former, 
than  what  it  had  by  itself.  This  odd  phenomenon  shewed  itself  in  other 
particulars,  as  in  wit  and  judgment,  philosophy  and  religion,  justice  and 
humanity,  zeal  and  charity,  depth  of  sense  and  perspicuity  of  style,  with 
innumerable  other  particulars,  too  long  to  be  mentioned  in  this  paper. 

As  a  dream  seldom  fails  of  dashing  seriousness  with  impertinence,  mirth 
with  gravity,  methought  I  made  several  other  experiments  of  a  more  ludi- 
crous nature,  by  one  of  which  I  found  that  an  English  octavo  was  very 
often  heavier  than  a  French  folio ;  and  by  another,  that  an  old  Greek  or 
Latin  author  weighed  down  a  whole  library  of  moderns.  Seeing  one  of 
my  Spectators  lying  by  me,  I  laid  it  into  one  of  the  scales,  and  flung  a  two- 
penny piece  into  the  other.  The  reader  will  not  inquire  into  the  event, 
if  he  remembers  the  first  trial  which  I  have  recorded  in  this  paper.  I 
afterwards  threw  both  the  sexes  into  the  balance ;  but  as  it  is  not  for  my 
interest  to  disoblige  either  of  them,  I  shall  desire  to  be  excused  from  tell- 
ing the  result  of  this  experiment.  Having  an  opportunity  of  this  nature 
in  my  hands,  I  could  not  forbear  throwing  into  one  scale  the  principles  of 
a  Tory,  and  in  the  other  those  of  a  AVhig ;  but  as  I  have  all  along  declared 
this  to  be  a  neutral  paper,  I  shall  likewise  desire  to  be  silent  under  this 
head  also,  though  upon  examining  one  of  the  weights,  I  saw  the  word 
TEKEL  engraven  on  it  in  capital  letters. 

#**##*•**#•* 

C. 


508  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


One  of  the  most  constant  and  attractive  qualities  of  Addison's 
writings  is  wit,  and  that  of  the  most  genuine  type ;  for  they  abound 
in  felicitous  analogies  and  ingenious  illustrations.  Invention,  too, 
of  a  high  and  rare  degree  is  met  with  on  every  page;  and  fictions 
of  a  unique  order,  and  sometimes  even  whimsical,  greet  us  most 
gracefully  at  no  great  intervals.  A  clear,  deep,  and  just  observa- 
tion of  life,  manners,  and  human  character  everywhere  manifests 
itself;  and  portraits  of  almost  Shakesperean  vitality  accost  us  as 
we  pass.  A  rich,  inimitable  sense  of  humor  also  prevails  in 
his  writings— a  genius  for  investing  the  commonest  incidents  of 
experience  with  an  uncommon  charm — a  delicious  newness.  But 
perhaps  the  most  general  and  the  most  obvious  characteristics  of 
his  writings  are  the  grace  and  the  moral  beauty  and  elevation  of 
their  tone. 

Addison  was  the  kindliest  and  most  generous  of  writers.  His 
works  are  utterly  devoid  of  personalities  and  pettinesses;  and  even 
in  his  political  controversies  he  never  allowed  himself  to  fall  below 
the  true  pitch  of  gentlemanly  moderation.  His  style,  though  it  is 
no  longer  cited  as  a  model  of  English  prose,  is  remarkably  lucid, 
expressive,  and  harmonious. 


JOHN   DRYDEN. 


JOHN  DRYDEN  was  born  August  9  (probably),  1631,  in  Aid- 
winkle,  Northamptonshire.  The  rudiments  of  his  education 
he  received  at  the  small  school  of  Tichmarsh ;  he  was  then 
admitted  as  a  king's  scholar  at  Westminster,  and  finally  (in 
1650)  was  elected  to  a  scholarship  of  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge. The  only  poetical  accomplishment  of  his  college  life 
was  an  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Lord  Hastings,  which,  though 
uncouth  and  uneven  in  versification,  was  in  other  respects  in- 
dicative of  his  future  characteristics.  He  took  his  bachelor's 
degree  in  1653. 

After  leaving  the  university,  nothing  worthy  of  mention 
occurred  until  1657,  when  Dryden  removed  to  London,  and 
settled  there  under  the  patronage  of  his  kinsman,  Sir  Gilbert 
Pickering,  a  devoted  Puritan  and  a  sturdy  upholder  of  the  Pro- 
tector. Our  poet  discovered  his  sympathy  with  the  political 
and  religious  iconoclasm  of  the  day  by  some  heroic  stanzas, 
written  in  1659,  On  the  Death  of  Oliver  Cromwell.  "  His  poetry 
was  in  the  general  style  of  the  times  in  which  he  lived ;  it  did 
not  partake  of  any  individual  character,  nor  was  it  controlled 
by  any  presiding  genius."* 

On  the  rep.toration  of  royalty,  Dryden  hastened  to  obliterate 
the  effects  of  his. late  poetical  performance  by  publishing  (in 
1660)  his  Astraea  Redux,  and,  the  next  year,  joining  in  the  gen- 
eral rejoicing  attending  the  coronation  of  Charles  II.,  wrote  A 
Panegyric  to  His  Sacred  Majesty.  Far  exceeding  in  elaborate- 
ness, in  polish,  and  in  melody,  any  previous  effort,  was  his 
poem  Annus  Mirabilis,  commemorating  the  great  events  of  the 
year  1666 — the  naval  war  and  the  fire  in  London. 

Availing  himself  of  the  opportunity  which  the  reopening  of 
the  theatres  afforded,  Dryden  now  directed  his  talents  to  the 

*  Life  of  Dryden,  by  Rev.  John  Mitford. 
43*  509 


510  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

writing  of  plays ;  and  between  the  years  1661  and  1664  pro- 
duced The  Wild  Gallant^  The  Hival  Ladies,  the  Indian  Queen, 
and  the  Indian  Emperor.  In  1667,  while  residing  at  the  house 
of  the  Earl  of  Berkshire,  his  father-in-law,  Dryden  wrote  his 
Essay  on  Dramatic  Poetry.  The  Maiden  Queen,  The  Tempest, 
Sir  Martin  Mar  all,  and  several  other  dramas,  were  next  pro- 
duced. In  1670  he  was  appointed  successor  to  William  Dave- 
nant  as  poet-laureate,  also  royal  historiographer,  receiving  a  sal- 
ary of  £200,  besides  the  annual  butt  of  canary. 

Dryden's  success  as  a  playwright  created  him  many  bitter 
rivals  and  enemies.  Of  the  latter  the  most  implacable  was  the 
Duke  of  Buckingham,  who,  with  the  assistance  of  such  poet- 
asters as  Butler,  Spratt,  and  Clifford,  succeeded  for  a  time  in 
provoking  public  ridicule  against  our  poet's  heroic  dramas  by 
the  celebrated  farce,  the  "  Rehearsal."  Dryden  did  not  reply  to 
the  attack,  but  tacitly  confessed  its  weight  by  turning  his  atten- 
tion to  comedy..  Of  this  species' of  writing  he  produced,  in  1672, 
Marriage-a-la-Mode,  and  Love  in  a  Nunnery.  Two  years  later 
wras  published  his  State  of  Innocence,  a  pitiable  attempt  at 
dramatizing  "  The  Paradise  Lost."  In  1675  appeared  his  last 
heroic  tragedy — Aurengzebe. 

One  of  the  best  of  Dryden's  plays,  produced  during  the  next 
six  years,  was  the  tragi-comedy  of  the  Spanish  Friar,  which  was 
acted  with  great  success  in  1681.  The  same  year,  our  poet 
brought  out  his  celebrated  political  satire,  Absalom  and  Achito- 
phel.  "  If  it  be  considered  as  a  poem  political  and  controversial, 
it  will  be  found  to  comprise  all  the  excellences  of  which  the  sub- 
ject is  susceptible — acrimony  of  censure,  elegance  of  praise,  art- 
ful delineation  of  characters,  variety  and  vigor  of  sentiment, 
happy  turns  of  language,  and  pleasing  harmony  of  numbers — • 
and  all  these  raised  to  such  a  height  as  can  scarcely  be  found 
in  any  other  English  composition."*  The  parties  satirized, 
under  the  mask  of  Hebrew  names  and  allusions,  wrere  the  anti- 
royal  faction  of  Shaftesbury,  Monmouth,  and  their  adherents. 

To  the  years  1682-4  belong  the  satire  of  Mac  FlecJcnoe—o. 
stinging  reply  to  the  personal  attacks  of  Settle  and  Shadwell 
— and  Religio  Laid,  a  defense  of  the  Anglican  Church  against 

*  Dr.  Johnson's  Essag  on  Dryden. 


DRYDEN.  oil 


the  Dissenters.  Some  have  discovered  in  the  latter  poem  the 
forebodings  of  that  grave  conviction,  which,  two  years  later, 
led  Dryden  to  embrace  the  Roman  Catholic  religion.  The 
years  1686  and  1687  were  employed  in  the  composition  of  The 
Hind  arid  Panther,  a  long  and  labored  poem,  wherein  the  author 
details  the  arguments  that  had  led  him  to  embrace  popery,  and 
wherein  he  recommends  a  union  of  the  Catholic  and  the  Estab- 
lished churches.  His  first  Ode  on  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  which,  until 
his  second  poem  on  the  same  occasion,  was  considered  one  of 
the  finest  lyrics  in  the  language,  was  also  written  in  1687. 

The  abdication  of  James  II.  lost  to  Dryden  his  office  of  lau- 
reate, and  what  to  a  poor  poet  was  more  considerable  still,  his 
£200  a  year.  These  reverses  of  fortune  drove  him  to  the  stage 
again  for  support ;  and  in  1690  he  brought  forward  what  is 
generally  conceded  to  be  his  chief  play — Don  Sebastian.  The 
opera  of  King  Arthur  followed  in  1691,  and  proved  eminently 
successful.  The  tragedy  of  Cleomenes,  which  he  himself  was  too 
ill  to  finish,  was  brought  out  in  1692.  One  other  piece  closed 
his  career  as  a  dramatist, — a  career  of  thirty  years,  and  pro- 
ductive of  a  drama  for  almost  every  year. 

Not  to  mention  divers  translations  of  minor  extent  of  Greek 
and  Roman  writers,  Dryden  began  in  1694  the  task  of  translat- 
ing Virgil's  Acneid.  It  was  completed  in  1697,  and  he  received 
for  the  labor  about  £1200.  In  the  latter  year,  also,  he  wrote  a 
second  ode  for  the  celebration  of  St.  Cecilia's  day,  entitled 
Alexander  s  Feast.  "  This  ode  certainly  possesses  the  great 
constituents  of  the  lyric  style;  its  bold,  abrupt  transitions;  its 
brilliant  contrasts ;  its  vividness  and  energy  ;  its  changes  from 
exultation  and  triumph  to  the  voice  of  pity  and  the  notes  of 
woe.  Nor  is  it  wanting  in  those  quick  flashes  of  the  brightest 
imagery,  passing  as  it  were  with  electric  rapidity  down  the 
chain  of  poetical  connection."  * 

His  imitation  of  the  tales  of  Boccaccio  and  Chaucer,  called 
Fables,  constituted  Dryden's  last  work.  He  died  on  the  1st  of 
May,  1700,  at  his  house  in  Gerard  street,  London.  A  few  days 
after,  he  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  between  Chaucer 
and  Cowley.  His  resting-place  was  for  a  long  time  unmarked, 

*  Life  of  Dryden  t  by  Rev.  John  Mitford. 


512  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

when  the  Duke  of  Buckinghamshire  bestowed  a  tablet,  inscribed 
only  with  the  name  DRYDEN. 

Our  only  extract  from  Diyden's  dramatic  writings  shall  be 
from  Don  /Sebastian  : 

ACT  IV. 
A  scene  between  DON  SEBASTIAN,  King  of  Portugal,  and  DORAX,  a  noble 

Portuguese,  now  a  renegade. 
Enter  DORAX,  having  taken  off  his  Turban,  and  put  on  a  Peruke,  Hat, 

and  Cravat. 

Dor.  Now  do  you  know  me  ? 
Seb.  Thou  should'st  be  Alonzo. 
Dor.  So  you  should  be  Sebastian : 
But  when  Sebastian  ceas'd  to  be  himself, 
I  ceas'd  to  be  Alonzo. 

Seb.  As  in  a  dream 
I  see  thee  here,  and  scarce  believe  mine  eyes. 

Dor.  Is  it  so  strange  to  find  me  where  my  wrongs, 
And  your  inhuman  tyranny  have  sent  me? 
Think  not  you  dream :   or,  if  you  did,  my  injuries 
Shall  call  so  loud,  that  Lethargy  should  wake ; 
And  Death  should  give  you  back  to  answer  me. 
A  thousand  nights  have  brush'd  their  balmy  wings 
Over  these  eyes,  but  ever  when  they  clos'd 
Your  tyrant  image  forc'd  them  ope  again, 
And  dry'd  the  dews  they  brought. 
The  long-expected  hour  is  come  at  length, 
By  manly  Vengeance  to  redeem  my  fame : 
And  that  once  clear'd,  eternal  sleep  is  welcome. 

M'h.  I  have  not  yet  forgot  I  am  a  King; 
Whose  royal  office  is  redress  of  wrongs: 
If  I  have  wrong' d  thee,  charge  me  face  to  face ; 
I  have  not  yet  forgot  I  am  a  soldier. 

Dor.  'Tis  the  first  justice  thou  hast  ever  done  me; 
Then  tho'  I  loath  this  woman's  war  of  tongues, 
Yet  shall  my  cause  of  vengeance  first  be  clear ; 
And  Honor  be  then  judge. 

Seb.  Honor  befriend  us  both. 

Beware,  I  warn  thee  yet,  to  tell  thy  griefs 
In  terms  becoming  Majesty  to  hear: 
I  warn  thee  thus,  because  I  know  thy  temper 
Is  insolent  and  haughty  to  superiors: 
How  often  hast  thou  bruv'd  my  peaceful  court, 
Fill'd  it  with  noisy  brawls,  and  windy  boasts ; 


DRY  DEN.  513 


And,  with  past  sefvice,  nauseously  repeated, 
Reproach'd  ev'n  me  thy  Prince? 

Dor.  And  well  I  might,  when  you  forgot  reward, 
The  part  of  Heav'n  in  kings:   for  punishment 
Is  hangman's  work,  and  drudgery  for  devils, 
I  must,  and  will  reproach  thee  with  my  service, 
Tyrant  (it  irks  me  so  to  call  my  Prince) 
But  just  resentment  and  hard  usage  coin'd 
Th'  unwilling  word ;  and  grating  as  it  is, 
Take  it,  for  't  is  thy  due. 

Seb.  How,  Tyrant ! 
Dor.  Tyrant. 

Seb.  Traitor;  that  name  thou  canst  not  echo  back; 
That  robe  of  infamy,  that  circumcision 
111  hid  beneath  that  robe,  proclaim  the  Traitor : 
And,  if  a  name 
More  foul  than  traitor  be,  'tis  Renegade. 

Dor.  If  I'm  a  traitor,  think,  and  blush,  thou  tyrant, 
Whose  injuries  betray'd  me  into  treason, 
Effac'd  my  loyalty,  unhing'd  my  faith, 
And  hurry 'd  me  from  hopes  of  heaven  to  hell, 
All  these,  and  all  my  yet  unfinish'd  crimes, 
When  I  shall  rise  to  plead  before  the  Saints, 
I  '11  charge  on  thee,  to  make  thy  damning  sure. 

Seb.  Thy  old  presumptuous  arrogance  again, 
That  bred  my  first  dislike,  and  then  my  loathing. 
Once  more  be  warn'd,  and  know  me  for  thy  king. 

Dor.  Too  well  I  know  thee,  but  for  king  no  more : 
This  is  not  Lisbon,  nor  the  Circle  this, 
Where,  like  a  statue,  thou  hast  stood  besieg'd 
By  sycophants,  and  fools,  the  growth  of  courts : 
Where  thy  gull'd  eyes,  in  all  the  gaudy  round, 
Met  nothing  but  a  lie  in  every  face ; 
And  the  gross  flattery  of  a  gaping  crowd, 
Envious  who  first  should  catch,  and  first  applaud 
The  stuff  or  royal  nonsense:  when  I  spoke, 
My  honest,  homely  words  were  carp'd,  and  censur'd, 
For  want  of  courtly  style :  related  actions, 
Tho'  modestly  reported,  pass'd  for  boasts : 
Secure  of  merit  if  I  ask'd  reward, 
Thy  hungry  minions  thought  their  rights  invaded, 
And  the  bread  snatch'd  from  pimps  and  parasites. 

Henrique*  answer'd,  with  a  ready  lie, 
To  save  his  king's,  the  boon  was  beg'd  before, 
2H 


514  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Seb.  What  say'st  thou  of  Henriquez  ?    Now  by  Heav'n, 
Thou  mov'st  me  more  by  barely  naming  him, 
Than  all  thy  foul  unmanner'd  scurril  taunts. 

Dor.  And  therefore  't  was  to  gall  thee,  that  I  nam'd  him, 
That  Thing,  that  Nothing,  but  a  Cringe  and  Smile ; 
That  Woman,  but  more  daub'd ;  or  if  a  Man, 
Corrupted  to  a  woman :  thy  Man  Mistress. 

Seb.  All  false  as  hell,  or  thou. 

Dor.  Yes  ;  full  as  false 

As  that  I  serv'd  thee  fifteen  hard  Campaigns, 
And  pitch'd  thy  standard  in  these  foreign  fields : 
By  me  thy  greatness  grew,  thy  years  grew  with  it, 
But  thy  ingratitude  outgrew  'em  both. 

Seb.  I  see  to  what  thou  tend'st,  but  tell  me  first, 
If  those  great  acts  were  done  alone  for  me ; 
If  Love  produc'd  not  some,  and  Pride  the  rest  ? 

Dor.  Why,  Love  does  all  that 's  noble  here  below : 
But  all  the  advantage  of  that  love  was  thine. 
For,  coming  frauglited  back,  in  either  hand 
With  Palm  and  Olive,  Victory  and  Peace, 
I  was  indeed  prepar'd  to  ask  my  own, 
( For  Violante's  Vows  were  mine  before : ) 
Thy  malice  had  prevention,  ere  I  spoke ; 
And  ask'd  me  Violante  for  Henriquez. 

Seb.  I  meant  thee  a  reward  of  greater  worth. 

Dor.  Where  justice  wanted,  could  reward  be  hoped? 
Could  the  robb'd  passenger  expect  a  bounty 
From  those  rapacious  hands  who  stripp'd  him  first? 

Seb.  He  had  my  promise,  ere  I  knew  thy  love. 

Dor.  My  services  deserv'd  thou  should'st  revoke  it. 

Seb.  Thy  insolence  had  cancell'd  all  thy  service : 
To  violate  my  laws,  even  in  my  court, 
Sacred  to  peace,  and  safe  from  all  affronts ; 
Ev'n  to  my  face,  and  done  in  my  despite, 
Under  the  wing  of  awful  majesty 
To  strike  the  Man  I  lov'd! 

Dor.  Ev'n  in  the  face  of  Heav'n,  a  place  more  sacred, 
Would  I  have  struck  the  Man,  who,  prompt  by  power, 
Would  seize  my  right,  and  rob  me  of  my  love : 
But,  for  a  blow  provok'd  by  thy  injustice, 
The  hasty  product  of  a  just  despair, 
When  he  refus'd  to  meet  me  in  the  field, 
That  thou  shouldst  make  a  coward's  cause  thy  own ! 


DRY  DEN.  515 


Seb.  He  durst :   nay  more,  desir'd  and  begg'd  with  tears, 
To  meet  thy  challenge  fairly;  'twas  thy  fault 
To  make  it  public ;  but  my  duty,  then, 
To  interpose,  on  pain  of  my  displeasure, 
•Betwixt  you  swords. 

Dor.  On  pain  of  infamy 

He  should  have  disobeyed. 

Seb.  Th'  indignity  thou  didst  was  meant  for  me: 
Thy  gloomy  eyes  were  cast  on  me  with  scorn, 
As  who  should  say,  the  blow  was  there  intended; 
But  that  thou  didst  not  dare  to  lift  thy  hands 
Against  anointed  Power: — so  was  I  forc'd 
To  do  a  sovereign  justice  to  myself, 
And  spurn  thee  from  my  presence. 

'  Dor.  Thou  hast  dar'd 

To  tell  me,  what  I  durst  not  tell  myself: 
I  durst  not  think  that  I  was  spurned,  and  live ; 
And  live  to  hear  it  boasted  to  my  face. 
All  my  long  avarice  of  Honor  lost, 
Heaped  up  in  youth,  and  hoarded  up  for  age ; 
Has  Honor's  fountain  then  suck'd  back  the  stream? 
He  has;,  and  hooting  boys  may  dry-shod  pass, 
And  gather  pebbles  from  the  naked  ford. 
Give  me  my  love,  my  honor;  give  'em  back — 
Give  me  revenge,  while  I  have  breath  to  ask  it. 

Seb.  Now  by  this  honor'd  Order  which  I  wear, 
More  gladly  would  I  give,  than  thou  dar'st  ask  it  : 
Nor  shall  the  sacred  character  of  king 
Be  urg'd  to  shield  me  from  thy  bold  appeal. 
If  I  have  injured  thee,  that  makes  no  equal : 
The  wrong,  if  done,  debas'd  me  down  to  thee. 
But  thou  hast  charg'd  me  with  ingratitude; 
Hast  thou  not  charg'd  me?  speak. 

Dor.  Thou  know'st  I  have: 

If  thou  disown'st  that  imputation,  draw, 
And  prove  my  charge  a  lie. 

Seb.  No;  to  disprove  that  lie  I  must  not  draw: 
Be  conscious  to  thy  worth,  and  tell  thy  soul 
What  thou  hast  done  this  day  in  my  defense: 
To  fight  thee,  after  this,  what  were  it  else 
Than  owning  that  ingratitude  thou  urgest? 
That  Isthmus  stands  between  two  rushing  seas; 
Which  mounting,  view  each  other  from  afar, 
And  strive  in  vain  to  meet. 


516  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Dor.  I  '11  cut  that  Isthmus. 

Thou  know'st  I  meant  not  to  preserve  thy  life, 
But  to  reprieve  it,  for  my  own  revenge. 
I  favor'd  thee  out  of  honorable  malice: 
Now  draw;   I  should  be  loth  to  think  thoti  dar'st  not: 
Beware  of  such  another  vile  excuse. 

Seb.  O  Patience,  Heav'n! 

Dor.  Beware  of  Patience  too; 

That's  a  suspicious  word:    It  had  been  proper, 
Before  thy  foot  had  spurn'd  me;  now  'tis  base: 
Yet,  to  disarm  thee  of  thy  last  defense, 
I  have  thy  oath  for  my  security: 
The  only  boon  I  begg'd  was  this  fair  combat: 
Fight  or  be  perjur'd  now;  that's  all  thy  choice. 

Seb.  Now  can  I  thank  thee  as  thou  wouldst  be  thank'd: 

[Draiving. 

Never  was  vow  of  honor  better  paid, 
If  my  true  sword  but  hold,  than  this  shall  be. 
The  sprightly  bridegroom  on  his  wedding  night, 
More  gladly  enters  not  the  lists  of  love. 
Why  'tis  enjoyment  to  be  summoned  thus. 
Go :   bear  my  message  to  Henriquez'  ghost ; 
And  say  his  master  and  his  friend  reveng'd  him. 

Dor.  His  Ghost!  then  is  my  hated  rival  dead? 

Seb.  The  question  is  beside  our  present  purpose; 
Thou  seest  me  ready;  we  delay  too  long. 

Dor.  A  minute  is  not  much  in  cither's  life. 
When  there 's  but  one  betwixt  us ;   throw  it  in, 
And  give  it  him  of  ue  who  is  to  fall. 

Seb.  He 's  dead :  make  haste,  and  thou  may'st  yet  o'ertake  him. 

Dor.  When  I  was  hasty,  thou  delay'dst  me  longer. 
I  pr'ythee  let  me  hedge  one  moment  more 
Into  thy  promise:   for  thy  life  preserv'd, 
Be  kind;  and  tell  me  how  that  rival  died, 
Whose  death  next  thine  I  wish'd. 

Seb.  If  it  would  please  thee,  thou  shouldst  never  know: 
But  thou,  like  jealousy,  enquir'st  a  truth, 
Which  found  will  torture  thee:    He  died  in  fight; 
Fought  next  my  person;  as  in  consort  fought; 
Kept  pace  for  pace,  and  blow  for  every  blow ; 
Save  when  he  heav'd  his  shield  in  my  defense; 
And  on  his  naked  side  receiv'd  my  wound. 
Then  when  he  could  no  more,  he  fell  at  once: 
But  roll'd  his  falling  body  'cross  their  way; 
And  made  a  bulwark  of  it  for  his  Prince. 


DRY!)  EN.  517 


Dor.  I  never  cari^  forgive  him  such  a  death! 

Seb.  I  prophesy'd  thy  proud  soul  could  not  bear  it. 
Now  judge  thyself,  who  best  deserv'd  my  love. 
I  knew  you  both,  and  (durst  I  say)  as  Heav'n 
Foreknew  among  the  shining  Angel  Host 
Who  would  stand  firm,  who  fall. 

Dor.  Had  he  been  tempted  so,  so  had  he  fall'n ; 
And  so,  had  I  been  favor'd,  had  I  stood. 

Seb.  What  had  been,  is  unknown ;  what  is,  appears ; 
Confess  he  justly  was  preferr'd  to  thee. 

Dor.  Had  I  been  born  with  his  indulgent  stars, 
My  fortune  had  been  his,  and  his  been  mine, 

0  worse  than  Hell !   what  glory  have  I  lost, 
And  what  has  he  acquir'd  by  such  a  death ! 

1  should  have  fallen  by  Sebastian's  side, 

My  corpse  have  been  the  bulwark  of  my  king. 

His  glorious  end  was  a  patch'd  work  of  Fate, 

111  sorted  with  a  soft  effeminate  life ; 

It  suited  better  with  my  life  than  his 

So  to.  have  died :   mine  had  been  of  a  piece, 

Spent  in  your  service,  dying  at  your  feet. 

Seb.  The  more  effeminate  and  soft  his  life, 
The  more  his  fame,  to  struggle  to  the  field, 
And  meet  his  glorious  fate :   confess,  proud  spirit, 
(For  1  will  have  it  from  thy  very  mouth) 
That  better  he  deserv'd  my  love  than  thou. 

Dor.  0,  whither  would  you  drive  me !   I  must  grant, 
Yes,  I  must  grant,  but  with  a  swelling  soul, 
Henriquez  had  your  love  with  more  desert : 
For  you  he  fought,  and  died ;   I  fought  against  you  ; 
Thro'  all  the  mazes  of  the  bloody  field, 
Hunted  your  sacred  life  ;  which  that  I  miss'd 
Was  the  propitious  error  of  my  fate, 
Not  of  my  soul ;  my  soul 's  a  regicide. 

Seb.  Thou  might'st  have  given  it  a  more  gentle  name; 
Thou  meantst  to  kill  a  tyrant,  not  a  king. 
Speak,  didst  thou  not,  Alonzo  ? 

Dor.  Can  I  speak! 

Alas,  I  cannot  answer  to  Alonzo  ! 
No,  Dorax  cannot  answer  to  Alonzo: 
Alonzo  was  too  kind  a  name  for  me. 
Then,  when  I  fought  and  conquer'd  writh  your  arms, 
In  that  blest  age  I  waa  the  man  you  nam'd ; 
Till  rage  and  pride  debar'd  me  into  Dorax; 
And  lost  like  Lucifer  my  name  above. 
44 


518  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Seb.  Yet  twice  this  day  I  ow'd  my  life  to  Dorax. 

Dor.  I  sav'd  you  but  to  kill  you:  there's  my  grief. 

Seb.  Nay,  if  thou  canst  be  griev'd,  thou  canst  repent : 
Thou  couldst  not  be  a  villain,  tho'  thou  wouldst  : 
Thou  ownst  too  much  in  owning  thou  hast  err'd; 
And  I  too  little,  who  provok'd  thy  crime. 

Dor.  O  stop  this  headlong  torrent  of  your  goodness: 
It  comes  too  fast  upon  a  feeble  soul, 
Half  drown'd  in  tears  before ;  spare  nay  confusion ! 
For  pity  spare,  and  say  not,  first  you  err'd. 
For  yet  I  have  not  dar'd,  thro'  guilt  and  shame, 
To  throw  myself  beneath  your  royal  feet. 
Now  spurn  this  rebel,  this  proud  renegade : 
'Tis  just  you  should,  nor  will  I  more  complain. 

Seb.  Indeed  thou  shouldst  not  ask  forgiveness  first, 
But  thou  prevent'st  me  still,  in  all  that 's  noble. 
Yes,  I  will  raise  thee  up  with  better  news: 
Thy  Violante's  heart  was  ever  thine; 
Compell'd  to  wed,  because  she  was  my  ward, 
Her  soul  was  absent  when  she  gave  her  hand: 
Nor  could  thy  threats,  or  his  pursuing  courtship, 
Effect  the  consummation  of  his  love: 
So,  still  indulging  tears,  she  pines  for  thee, 
A  widow  and  a  maid. 

Dor.  Have  I  been  cursing  Heav'n,  while  Heav'n  bleat  me! 
I  shall  run  mad  with  ecstasy  of  joy : 
What,  in  one  moment,  to  be  reconcil'd 
To  Heav'n,  and  to  my  king,  and  to  my  love ! 
But  Pity  is  my  friend,  and  stops  me  short, 
For  my  unhappy  rival :  poor  Henriquez ! 

Seb.  Art  thou  so  generous  too,  to  pity  him? 
Nay,  then  I  was  unjust  to  love  him  better. 
Here  let  me  ever  hold  thee  in  my  arms: 
And  all  our  quarrels  be  but  such  as  these, 
Who  shall  love  best,  and  closest  shall  embrace : 
Be  what  Henriquez  was :  be  my  Alonzo. 

Dor.  What,  my  Alonzo,  said  you  ?  my  Alonzo ! 
Let  my  tears  thank  you;  for  I  cannot  speak: 
And  if  I  could, 
Words  were  not  made  to  vent  such  thoughts  as  mine. 

Seb.  Thou  canst  not  speak,  and  I  can  ne'er  be  silent. 
Some  strange  reverse  of  fate  must  sure  attend. 
'T  is  vast  profusion,  this  extravagance 
Of  Heav'n,  to  bless  me  thus.    'T  is  gold  so  pure, 
It  cannot  bear  the  stamp,  without  alloy. 


DRY  DEN.  519 


Be  kind,  ye  Pow'rs,  and  take  but  half  away : 
With  ease  the  gifts  of  fortune  I  resign ; 
But,  let  my  love,  and  Friend,  be  ever  mine. 

Of  his  non-dramatic  poetry  we  select  as  the  choicest  produc- 
tion his  second  ode  in  honor  of  St.  Cecilia's  day,  entitled 

ALEXANDER'S  FEAST;    OB,  THE  POWER  OF  MUSIC. 

'T  was  at  the  royal  feast,  for  Persia  won 

By  Philip's  warlike  son  : 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne : 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around, 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound ; 
(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crown'd.) 
The  lovely  Thais,  by  his  side, 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride 
In  Flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair ! 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserve  the  fair. 

Timotheus,  placed  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  choir, 
With  flying  fingers  touch'd  the  lyre: 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  th'e  sky, 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above, 
(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love.) 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god: 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode, 
When  he  to  fair  Olympia  press'd: 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast: 
•,       Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curl'd, 

And  stamp'd  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of 

the  world. 

The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 
A  present  deity !  they  shout  around : 
A  present  deity !  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound. 
With  ravish'd  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god, 
Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 


520  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician  sung, 
Of  Bacchus — ever  fair  and  ever  young: 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes ; 
Sound  the  trumpets;  beat  the  drums: 
Flush'd  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face : 

Now  give  the  hautboys  breath.    He  comes !  he  comes ! 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain ; 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure: 
Eich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Soothed  with  the  sound  the  king  grew  vain ; 

Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes;  and  thrice  he 

slew  the  slain. 

The  master  saw  the  madness  rise ; 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes ; 
And,  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied, 
Changed  his  hand,  and  check'd  his  pride. 

He  chose  a  mournful  muse 

Soft  pity  to  infuse: 
He  sung  Darius,  great  and  good ; 

By  too  severe  a  fate, 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 

And  weltering  in  his  blood ; 
Deserted,  at  his  utmost  need, 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed ; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 
With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 
Kevolving  in  his  alter'd  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below; 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole ; 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled,  to  see 

That  love  was  in  the  next  degree; 

'Twas  but  a  kindred-sound  to  move, 

For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures, 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 

War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble ; 

Honor,  but  an  empty  bubble ; 


DRY  DEN.  521 


Never  ending,  still  beginning, 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying : 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 
Think,  oh,  think  it  worth  enjoying  : 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause; 
So  Love  was  crown'd,  but  Music  won  the  cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sigh'd  and  look'd,  sigh'd  and  look'd, 
Sigh'd  and  look'd,  and  sigh'd  again : 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppress'd, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 
Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again: 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder, 
And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark,  hark,  the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head : 
As  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And  amazed,  he  stares  around. 
Revenge!   revenge!  Timotheus  cries, 

See  the  furies  arise! 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair ! 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes! 
Behold  a  ghastly  band, 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand! 

Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain, 
And  unburied  remain, 
Inglorious  on  the  plain: 
Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 

How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. 
The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy ; 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy; 
Thais  led  the  way, 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And,  like  another  Helen,  tired  another  Troy ! 

Thus  long  ago 
Ere  heaving  bellows  learn'd  to  blow, 


MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


While  organs  yet  were  mute; 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute, 

And  sounding  lyre, 

Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown,; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies; 
She  drew  an  angel  down. 

Just  as  in  his  political  preferences  he  was  influenced  by  the  dom- 
inant party  of  the  hour,  so  in  his  poetical  affinities  was  Dryden 
swayed  and  molded  by  the  literary  fashion  of  the  day.  The  Res- 
toration brought  with  it  into  English  society  many  of  the  worst 
features  of  French  licentiousness,  not  the  least  of  which  was  an 
unblushing  grossness  in  both  the  action  and  the  diction  of  dramatic 
representations;  and  these  abominations  Dryden  greedily  incor- 
porated into  his  less  serious  plays — his  comedies.  Naturally  defi- 
cient in  humor  and  in  that  keen  insight  into  human  nature,  which 
are  so  indispensable  to  writings  of  this  kind,  he  essayed  to  make 
up  for  the  lack  by  the  introduction  of  all  sorts  of  witty  expedients, 
mysterious  intrigues,  and  startling  disguises. 

His  tragedies,  though  free  from  the  immoralities  just  noticed  as 
characteristic  of  his  comedies,  are  none  superior  to  the  latter  as 
works  of  dramatic  art.  They  are  wholly  destitute  of  the  vigorous 
naturalness  of  the  dramatic  writings  of  the  Elizabethan  epoch. 
They  are  extraordinary  exaggerations  in  every  sense, — in  plot,  in 
action,  in  sentiment,  in  diction.  No  such  characters  ever  lived  as 
Dryden  daubed— characters  stiff,  stilted,  monstrous,  and  ever  preg- 
nant with  bombastic  sentiments.  Over  the  tender  sentiments  of 
our  human  nature  he  had  no  control  whatever;  and  even  love  he 
perverted  into  a  matter  for  hair-splitting  discussions. 

But  to  these  great  faults  he  opposed  commanding  talents — a 
marvelous  faculty  of  language.,  and  a  free,  varied,  and  splendid 
versification.  He  was  a  master  of  the  rhymed  heroic  couplet,  and 
his  poetry  abounds  in  fine  descriptions,  picturesque  incidents,  and 
eloquent  rhetoric.  In  lyric  poetry  he  possessed  uncommon  power; 
his  Ode  on  St.  Cecilia's  Day  being  regarded  as  one  of  the  most  vigor- 
ous and  noble  of  its  kind  in  the  English  language. 


JOHN    BUNYAN. 


JOHN  BUNYAN  was  born  in  the  village  of  Elstow,  near  Bed- 
ford, in  the  year  1628.  The  son  of  a  poor  tinker,  the  most 
outrageous  swearer,  liar,  debauchee,  and  corrupter  of  youth  in 
his  native  village,  the  lucky  survivor  of  many  casualties,  a 
courageous  and  dissolute  soldier, — thess  are  the  rough,  unamiable 
facts  of  the  years  of  his  minority.  The  marrying  a  virtuous 
and  pious  young  woman,  the  charge  of  an  abandoned  woman 
that  "  he  swore  and  cursed  at  that  most  fearful  rate  that  she 
trembled  to  hear  him,"  and  "that  he  was  able  to  spoil  all  the 
youth  in  a  whole  town,"  and  the  death,  by  a  stroke  of  lightning, 
of  two  of  his  associates,  while  ringing  the  church-bells  to  summon 
Sabbath-breakers  to  a  game  of  foot-ball, — these  were  the  immedi- 
ate agencies  that  turned  Bunyan  from  a  course  of  sin  into  one 
of  formal  religious  observance. 

But,  report  says,  it  was  the  conversation  of  some  poor,  pious 
women  that  first  aroused  his  conscience  to  a  realization  of  his 
spiritual  poverty,  and  opened  his  mind  to  a  knowledge  of  the 
real  source  of  supply.  The  tortures  of  spirit  that  followed,  the 
tears  of  penitence,  the  groans  of  anguish,  the  fastings,  the 
prayers,  the  alternate  hope  and  despair,  the  occasional  light, 
the  all  but  prevalent  gloom,  the  wrestlings  with  the  Angel  of 
the  Lord,  the  more  frequent  and  fiercer  struggles  with  the  Prince 
of  Darkness, — these  are  painful  to  contemplate,  and  are  all  but 
incredible.  Through  such  tribulations,  however,  Bunyan,  stead- 
fastly relying  on  divine  assistance,  fought  his  way  to  church- 
fellowship — being  then  twenty-five  years  of  age — and  shortly 
afterwards  to  the  Christian  ministry  as  a  Dissenter. 

The  scene  of  conflict  was  now  shifted  from  his  soul  to  the 
world.  Within  all  was  serene  and  auspicious,  without  all  was 
agitated  and  unpropitious.  Religious  persecution  arose  with 
great  violence ;  and  Bunyan  was  incarcerated  in  Bedford  Gaol, 

523 


524  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

for  praying  and  preaching  in  nonconformity  to  the  ordinance  of 
the  Established  Church.  In  this  narrow,  crowded,  and  unwhole- 
some prison-house,  he  passed  twelve  and  a  half  years  of  the 
prime  of  his  life  :  but  not  idly,  nor  ineffectively ;  for  here  it  was 
that,  among  a  large  number  of  valuable  compositions,  he  penned 
The  Holy  City,  Christian  Behavior,  Grace  Abounding  to  the  Chief 
of  Sinners,  and  the  first  part  of  that  unique  and  imperishable 
allegory — The  Pilgrims  Progress. 

From  his  imprisonment  Bunyan  was  liberated  by  royal  pardon, 
in  1672,  and  at  once  assumed  pastoral  charge  of  the  church  at 
Bedford,  to  which  office  he  had  been  unanimously  called  the 
year  previous,  and  which  he  filled  with  great  popularity  and 
success  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  But  while  his  peculiarly  vigorous 
and  picturesque  sermons  gave  him  local  renown,  his  writings — 
at  least  two  of  them —  The  Pilgrim's  Progress  and  The  Holy  War, 
have  won  for  him  universal  and  lasting  fame.  The  first  was 
published  in  1678,  a  number  of  years  after  its  composition.  A 
second  part  was  added  in  1684.  The  Holy  War  was  published 
in  1682. 

Bunyan  died  of  a  fever,  contracted  by  exposure  while  on  an 
errand  of  mercy,  on  the  31st  of  August,  1688. 

From  The  Pilgrims  Progress,  part  first,  we  select  the  closing 
scene. 

Now,  I  further  saw,  that  betwixt  them  (Christian  and  Hopeful)  and  the 
gate  was  a  river,  but  there  was  no  bridge  to  go  over:  the  river  was  very 
deep.  At  the  sight,  therefore,  of  this  river,  the  Pilgrims  were  much  stunned ; 
but  the  men  (the  Shining  Ones)  that  went  with  them  said,  You  must  go 
through,  or  you  cannot  come  at  the  gate. 

The  Pilgrims  then  began  to  inquire  if  there  was  no  other  way  to  the 
gate ;  to  which  they  answered,  Yes ;  but  there  hath  not  any  save  two,  to  wit, 
Enoch  and  Elijah,  been  permitted  to  tread  that  path  since  the  foundation 
of  the  world,  nor  shall,  until  the  last  trumpet  shall  sound.  The  Pilgrims 
then,  especially  Christian,  began  to  despond  in  their  minds,  and  looked 
this  way  and  that,  but  no  way  could  be  found  by  them,  by  which  they 
might  escape  the  river.  Then  they  asked  the  men  if  the  waters  were  all 
of  a  depth.  They  said,  No ;  yet  they  could  not  help  them  in  that  case ;  for, 
said  they,  you  shall  find  it  deeper  or  shallower,  as  you  believe  in  the  king 
of  the  place. 

They  then  addressed  themselves  to  the  water;  and  entering,  Christian 
began  to  sink,  and  crying  out  to  his  good  friend  Hopeful,  he  said,  I  sink  in 
deep  water,  the  billows  go  over  my  head,  all  his  waves  go  over  me!  Selah. 

Then  said  the  other,  Be  of  good  cheer,  my  brother,  I  feel  the  bottom,  and 
it  is  good.  Then  said  Christian,  Ah!  my  friend,  "the  sorrows  of  death 


BUNYAN.  525 


have  compassed  me  about;"  I  shall  not  see  the  land  that  flows  with  milk 
and  honey ;  and  with  that  a  great  darkness  and  horror  fell  upon  Christian, 
so  that  he  could  not  see  before  him.  Also  here  he  in  great  measure  lost 
his  senses,  so  that  he  could  neither  remember,  nor  orderly  talk  of  any  of 
those  sweet  refreshments  that  he  had  met  with  in  the  way  of  his  pilgrimage. 
But  all  the  words  that  he  spake  still  tended  to  discover  that  he  had  horror 
of  mind,  and  heart  fears  that  he  should  die  in  that  river,  and  never  obtain 
entrance  in  at  the  gate. 

Here  also,  as  they  that  stood  by  perceived,  he  was  much  in  the  troublesome 
thoughts  of  the  sins  that  he  had  committed,  both  since  and  before  he  began 
to  be  a  pilgrim.  It  was  also  observed  that  he  was  troubled  with  apparitions 
of  hobgoblins  and  evil  spirits,  for  ever  and  anon  he  would  intimate  so  much 
by  words.  Hopeful,  therefore,  here  had  much  ado  to  keep  his  brother's 
head  above  water;  yea,  sometimes  he  would  be  quite  gone  down,  and  then, 
ere  a  while,  he  would  rise  up  again  half  dead.  Hopeful  also  would  endeavor 
to  comfort  him,  saying,  Brother,  I  see  the  gate,  and  men  standing  by  to 
receive  us;  but  Christian  would  answer,  It  is  you,  it  is  you  they  wait  for; 
you  have  been  Hopeful  ever  since  I  knew  you.  And  so  have  you,  said  he 
to  Christian.  Ah,  brother!  said  he,  surely  if  I  was  right  he  would  now 
arise  to  help  me ;  but  for  my  sins  he  hath  brought  me  into  the  snare,  and 
hath  left  me.  Then  said  Hopeful,  My  brother,  you  have  quite  forgot  the 
text,  where  it  is  said  of  the  wicked,  "  There  are  no  bands  in  their  death, 
but  their  strength  is  firm.  They  are  not  in  trouble  as  other  men,  neither 
are  they  plagued  like  other  men."  These  troubles  and  distresses  that  you 
go  through  in  these  waters  are  no  sign  that  God  hath  forsaken  you  ;  but  are 
sent  to  try  you,  whether  you  will  call  to  mind  that  which  heretofore  you 
have  received  of  his  goodness,  and  live  upon  him  in  your  distresses. 

Then  1  saw  in  my  dream  that  Christian  was  in  a  muse  awhile.  To  whom 
also  Hopeful  added  this  word,  Be  of  good  cheer.  Jesus  Christ  maketh  thee 
whole ;  and  with  that  Christian  brake  out  with  a  loud  voice,  Oh  !  I  see  him 
again,  and  he  tells  me,  "  When  thou  passest  through  the  waters,  I  will  be 
5th  thee;  and  through  the  rivers,  they  shall  not  overflow  thee."  Then 
fhey  both  took  courage,  and  the  enemy  was  after  that  as  still  as  a  stone 
until  they  were  gone  over.  Christian  therefore  presently  found  ground  to 
stand  upon,  and  so  it  followed  that  the  rest  of  the  river  was  but  shallow. 
Thus  they  got  over. 

Now,  upon  the  bank  of  the  river,  on  the  other  side,  they  saw  the  two 
shining  men  again,  who  there  waited  for  them  ;  wherefore,  being  come  out 
of  the  river,  they  saluted  them,  saying,  We  are  ministering  spirits,  sent 
forth  to  minister  for  those  that  shall  be  heirs  of  salvation.  Thus  they  went 
along  towards  the  gate. 

Now,  now  look  how  the  holy  pilgrims  ride, 
Clouds  are  their  Chariots,  Angels  are  their  Guide: 
Who  Avould  not  here  for  him  all  hazards  run, 
That  thus  provides  for  his  when  this  world's  done. 

Now  you  must  note  that  the  city  stood  upon  a  mighty  hill,  but  the  Pil- 
grims went  up  that  hill  with  ease,  because  they  had  there  two  men  to  lead 
them  up  by  the  arms ;  also,  they  had  left  their  mortal  garments  behind 
them  in  the  river,  for  though  they  went  in  with  them,  they  came  out  with- 
out them.  They,  therefore,  went  up  here  with  much  agility  and  speed, 
though  the  foundation  upon  which  the  city  was  framed  was  higher  than 
the  clouds.  They  therefore  went  up  through  the  regions  of  the  air,  sweetly 


528  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

ter  to  maintain  to  the  end  the  interest  of  readers,  the  question 
naturally  arises,  why  is  it  that  in  this,  the  most  elaborate  of  alle- 
gories, Bunyan  has  succeeded  in  fairly  possessing  himself  of  the 
attention  and  sympathy  of  all?  The  explanation  lies  undoubtedly 
in  this, — that  Pilgrim's  Progress  is  a  mirror  of  such  surprising  depth, 
clearness,  and  fidelity,  that  every  reader  recognizes  therein  features, 
if  not  the  whole,  of  his  own  soul's  image — of  his  own  heart's  prog- 
ress. 

Bunyan's  virtues  and  vices,  like  the  simple  rib  extracted  from 
Adam's  side,  straightway,  in  the  master's  creative  hand,  develop 
into  complex  and  perfect  organisms  of  exquisite  loveliness  or  ter- 
rifying ugliness.  They  become  more  real  and  human  to  us  than 
many  historical  characters  that  we  encounter  in  dramas  and 
fictions. 

It  is  wonderful,  the  sway  that  is  exerted  by  the  picturesque  situ- 
ations and  personages  of  this  allegory,  not  only  over  the  intellec- 
tual part  of  one's  nature,  but  also  over  the  moral  and  religious 
sensibilities!  And  the  wonder  only  augments  when  we  consider 
the  simplicity  of  the  vehicle  employed — nothing  but  the  plainest 
and  most  usual  words  and  phrases.  Verily,  if  we  would  witness 
the  most  extraordinary  triumph  of  a  pure  English  mind,  wielding 
as  its  weapon  the  pure  English  tongue,  we  must  turn  to  Pilgrim's 
Progress  I 


SAMUEL    BUTLER. 


SAMUEL  BUTLER  was  born  in  the  parish  of  Strensham,  in 
Worcestershire,  in  1612.  It  is  very  probable  that  the  only 
schooling  he  ever  received  was  what  he  got  in  the  grammar- 
school  at  Worcester. 

Of  the  meager  facts  of  his  life  known  to  us,  one  of  the  earliest 
is  that  he  served  for  some  time  as  clerk  to  one  Justice  Jefferys; 
and  that  his  leisure  moments,  which  were  not  few,  were 
improved  by  study  of  the  arts  of  painting  and  music.  We 
next  hear  of  him  at  the  house  of  the  Countess  of  Kent,  where 
he  enjoyed  the  advantage  of  ah  extensive  library  and  the  con- 
versation of  Selden,  reputed  as  being  the  most  scholarly  man  of 
his  age.  Subsequently,  Sir  Samuel  Luke,  one  of  Cromwell's 
officers,  became  our  poet's  patron.  In  this  home  of  Presbyte- 
rian austerity,  it  is  believed  Butler  studied  the  originals  of 
those  inimitable  burlesque  characters  found  in  his  remarkable 
poem  of  JIudibras,  and  here  commenced  its  composition. 

The  first  part  of  Hudibras  appeared  in  1663.  The  hero  of 
the  poem — Hudibras — is  a  Presbyterian  justice,  who,  vain  of 
his  legal  authority  and  blinded  by  fanaticism,  roams  the  coun- 
try to  correct  the  crazy  faiths  and  immoral  practices  of  the  peo- 
ple at  large,  accompanied  by  an  Independent  Clerk,  one  'Squire 
Balpho,  a  very  zealous,  but  also  a  very  disputatious  and  stub- 
born fellow.  The  absurdities  of  their  doings  are  intended  as 
characterizations  of  the  natural  workings  of  the  religious  and 
political  tenets  of  the  Puritan  and  Republican  party  of  those 
times. 

The  poem  was,  of  course,  received  with  marked  approbation 
by  the  lately  triumphant  royalists,  especially  by  the  king  and 
his  court.  A  second  part  appeared  in  1664,  and  a  third  part 
in  1678. 

Notwithstanding  the  deservedly  high  reputation  which  But- 
45  21  529 


528  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

ter  to  maintain  to  the  end  the  interest  of  readers,  the  question 
naturally  arises,  why  is  it  that  in  this,  the  most  elaborate  of  alle- 
gories, Bunyan  has  succeeded  in  fairly  possessing  himself  of  the 
attention  and  sympathy  of  all  ?  The  explanation  lies  undoubtedly 
in  this, — that  Pilgrim's  Progress  is  a  mirror  of  such  surprising  depth, 
clearness,  and  fidelity,  that  every  reader  recognizes  therein  features, 
it' not  the  whole,  of  his  own  soul's  image — of  his  own  heart's  prog- 
ress. 

Bunyan's  virtues  and  vices,  like  the  simple  rib  extracted  from 
Adam's  side,  straightway,  in  the  master's  creative  hand,  develop 
into  complex  and  perfect  organisms  of  exquisite  loveliness  or  ter- 
rifying ugliness.  They  become  more  real  and  human  to  us  than 
many  historical  characters  that  we  encounter  in  dramas  and 
fictions. 

It  is  wonderful,  the  sway  that  is  exerted  by  the  picturesque  situ- 
ations and  personages  of  this  allegory,  not  only  over  the  intellec- 
tual part  of  one's  nature,  but  also  over  the  moral  and  religious 
sensibilities!  And  the  wonder  only  augments  when  we  consider 
the  simplicity  of  the  vehicle  employed — nothing  but  the  plainest 
and  most  usual  words  and  phrases.  Verily,  if  we  would  witness 
the  most  extraordinary  triumph  of  a  pure  English  mind,  wielding 
as  its  weapon  the  pure  English  tongue,  we  must  turn  to  Pilgrims 
Progress  I 


SAMUEL    BUTLER. 


SAMUEL  BUTLER  was  born  in  the  parish  of  Strensham,  in 
Worcestershire,  in  1612.  It  is  very  probable  that  the  only 
schooling  he  ever  received  was  what  he  got  in  the  grammar- 
school  at  Worcester. 

Of  the  meager  facts  of  his  life  known  to  us,  one  of  the  earliest 
is  that  he  served  for  some  time  as  clerk  to  one  Justice  Jefferys; 
and  that  his  leisure  moments,  which  were  not  few,  were 
improved  by  study  of  the  arts  of  painting  and  music.  We 
next  hear  of  him  at  the  house  of  the  Countess  of  Kent,  where 
he  enjoyed  the  advantage  of  an  extensive  library  and  the  con- 
versation of  Selden,  reputed  as  being  the  most  scholarly  man  of 
his  age.  Subsequently,  Sir  Samuel  Luke,  one  of  Cromwell's 
officers,  became  our  poet's  patron.  In  this  home  of  Presbyte- 
rian austerity,  it  is  believed  Butler  studied  the  originals  of 
those  inimitable  burlesque  characters  found  in  his  remarkable 
poem  of  Hudibras,  and  here  commenced  its  composition. 

The  first  part  of  Hudibras  appeared  in  1663.  The  hero  of 
the  poem — Hudibras — is  a  Presbyterian  justice,  who,  vain  of 
his  legal  authority  and  blinded  by  fanaticism,  roams  the  coun- 
try to  correct  the  crazy  faiths  and  immoral  practices  of  the  peo- 
ple at  large,  accompanied  by  an  Independent  Clerk,  one  'Squire 
Ralpho,  a  very  zealous,  but  also  a  very  disputatious  and  stub- 
born fellow.  The  absurdities  of  their  doings  are  intended  as 
characterizations  of  the  natural  workings  of  the  religious  and 
political  tenets  of  the  Puritan  and  Republican  party  of  those 
times. 

The  poem  was,  of  course,  received  with  marked  approbation 
by  the  lately  triumphant  royalists,  especially  by  the  king  and 
his  court.  A  second  part  appeared  in  1664,  and  a  third  part 
in  1678. 

Notwithstanding  the  deservedly  high  reputation  which  But- 
45  21  529 


530  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

ler  won  by  his  poem,  and  the  patronage  his  services  merited  at 
the  hands  of  the  government,  he  was  suffered  to  starve  upon 
the  flattering  promises  of  the  court.  Even  the  honor  of  a  pub- 
lic funeral  in  Westminster  Abbey  was  denied  him,  and  his 
funeral  expenses  were  allowed  to  be  defrayed  by  his  friend  Mr. 
Longueville.  He  died  September  25,  1680. 

From  Hudibras  we  excerpt,  almost  entire,  our  poet's  descrip- 
tion of  his  hero : 

PART  L— CANTO  I. 

When  civil  dudgeon  first  grew  high, 

And  men  fell  out  they  knew  not  why ; 

When  hard  words,  jealousies,  and  fears, 

Set  folks  together  by  the  ears, 

And  made  them  fight,  like  mad  or  drunk, 

For  Dame  Religion  as  for  punk; 

Whose  honesty  they  all  durst  swear  for, 

Though  not  a  man  of  them  knew  wherefore 

When  Gospel-trumpeter,  surrounded 

With  long-ear'd  rout,  to  battle  sounded ; 

And  pulpit,  drum  ecclesiastic, 

Was  beat  with  fist  instead  of  a  stick ; 

Then  did  Sir  Knight  abandon  dwelling, 

And  out  he  rode  a-colonelling. 

A  wight  he  was,  whose  very  sight  would 
Entitle  him  Mirror  of  Knighthood, 
That  never  bow'd  his  stubborn  knee 
To  any  thing  but  chivalry, 
Nor  put  up  blow,  but  that  which  laid 
Right  Worshipful  on  shoulder  blade ; 
Chief  of  domestic  knights  and  errant, 
Either  for  chartel  or  for  warrant ; 
Great  on  the  bench,  great  in  the  saddle, 
That  could  as  well  bind  o'er  as  swaddle ; 
Mighty  he  was  at  both  of  these 
And  styl'd  of  War,  as  well  as  Peace : 
(So  some  rats,  of  amphibious  nature, 
Are  either  for  the  land  or  water.) 
But  here  our  authors  make  a  doubt 
Whether  he  were  more  wise  or  stout: 
Sume  hold  the  one,  and  some  the  other, 
But,  howsoe'er  they  make  a  pother, 
The  diff'rence  was  so  small,  his  brain 
Outweigh'd  his  rage  but  half,  a  grain ; 


BUTLER.  531 


Which  made  some  take  him  for  a  tool 
That  knaves  do  work  with,  call'd  a  Fool. 
For  't  has  been  held  by  many,  that 
As  Montaigne,  playing  with  his  cat, 
Complains  she  thought  him  but  an  ass, 
Much  more  she  would  Sir  Hudibras : 
( For  that 's  the  name  our  valiant  Knight 
To  all  his  challenges  did  write.) 
But  they're  mistaken  very  much; 
'Tis  plain  enough  he  was  not  such. 

We  grant,  although  he  had  much  wit, 

H'  was  very  shy  of  using  it, 

As  being  loth  to  wear  it  out, 

And  therefore  bore  it  not  about; 

Unless  on  holidays  or  so, 

As  men  their  best  apparel  do. 

Besides,  'tis  known  he  could  speak  Greek 

As  naturally  as  pigs  squeak ; 

That  Latin  was  no  more  difficile, 

Than  to  a  blackbird  't  is  to  whistle : 

Being  rich  in  both,  he  never  scanted 

His  bounty  unto  such  as  wanted  ; 

But  much  of  either  would  afford 

To  many  that  had  not  one  word. 

For  Hebrew  roots,  although  they  're  found 

To  flourish  most  in  barren  ground, 

He  had  such  plenty  as  suffic'd 

To  make  some  think  him  circumcis'd. 

He  was  in  logic  a  great  critic, 

Profoundly  skill'd  in  analytic ; 

He  could  distinguish,  and  divide 

A  hair  'twixt  south  and  south-west  side ; 

On  either  which  he  would  dispute, 

Confute,  change  hands,  and  still  confute : 

He  'd  undertake  to  prove,  by  force 

Of  argument,  a  man 's  no  horse ; 

He'd  prove  a  buzzard  is  no  fowl, 

And  that  a  lord  may  be  an  owl ; 

A  calf  an  alderman,  a  goose  a  justice, 

And  rooks  Committee-men  and  Trustees. 

He'd  run  in  debt  by  disputation, 

And  pay  with  ratiocination : 

All  this  by  syllogism,  true 

In  mood  and  figure  he  would  do. 


532  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

For  rhetoric,  he  could  not  ope 

His  mouth,  but  out  there  flew  a  trope ; 

And  when  he  happen'd  to  break  off 

I'  th'  middle  of  his  speech,  or  cough, 

H'  had  hard  words  ready  to  show  why, 

And  tell  what  rules  he  did  it  by; 

Else,  when  with  greatest  art  he  spoke, 

You'd  think  he  talk'd  like  other  folk; 

For  all  a  rhetorician's  rules 

Teach  nothing  but  to  name  his  tools. 

But,  when  he  pleas'd  to  show 't,  his  speech, 
In  loftiness  of  sound,  was  rich ; 
A  Babylonish  dialect, 
Which  learned  pedants  much  affect; 
It  was  a  party-color'd  dress 
Of  patch'd  and  pyebald  languages; 
'Twas  English  cut  on  Greek  and  Latin, 
Like  fustian  heretofore  on  satin ; 
It  had  an  odd  promiscuous  tone, 
As  if  h'  had  talk'd  three  parts  in  one ; 
Which  made  some  think,  when  he  did  gabble, 
Th'  had  heard  three  laborers  of  Babel, 
Or  Cerberus  himself  pronounce 
A  leash  of  languages  at  once. 
This  he  as  volubly  would  vent, 
As  if  his  stock  would  ne'er  be  spent: 
And  truly,  to  support  that  charge, 
He  had  supplies  as  vast  and  large ; 
For  he  could  coin  or  counterfeit 
New  words  with  little  or  no  wit ; 
Words  so  debas'd  and  hard,  no  stone 
Was  hard  enough  to  touch  them  on ; 
And  when  with  hasty  noise  he  spoke  'em, 
The  ignorant  for  current  took  'em ; 
That  had  the  orator,  who  once 
Did  fill  his  mouth  with  pebble  stones 
When  he  harangu'd,  but  known  his  phrase, 
He  would  have  us'd  no  other  ways. 

In  mathematics  he  was  greater 
Than  Tycho  Brahe  or  Erra  Pater; 
For  he,  by  geometric  scale, 
Could  take  the  size  of  pots  of  ale ; 
Resolve  by  sines  and  tangents  straight 
If  bread  or  butter  wanted  weight ; 


BUTLER.  533 


And  wisely  tell  what  hour  o'  th'  day 
The  clock  does  strike,  by  Algebra. 
Beside,  he  was  a  shrewd  philosopher, 
And  had  read  ev'ry  text  and  gloss  over; 
Whate'er  the  crabbed.'st  author  hath, 
He  understood  b'  implicit  faith ; 
Whatever  sceptic  could  enquire  for, 
For  ev'ry  why  he  had  a  wherefore ; 
Knew  more  than  forty  of  them  do, 
As  far  as  words  and  terms  could  go; 
All  which  he  understood  by  rote, 
And,  as  occasion  serv'd,  would  quote; 
'    No  matter  whether  right  or  wrong ; 
They  might  be  either  said  or  sung. 

His  notions  fitted  things  so  well, 
That  which  was  which  he  could  not  tell, 
But  oftentimes  mistook  the  one 
For  th'  other,  as  great  clerks  have  done ; 
He  could  reduce  all  things  to  acts, 
And  knew  their  natures  by  abstracts ; 
Where  Entity  and  Quiddity, 
The  ghosts  of  defunct  bodies,  fly ; 
Where  truth  in  person  does  appear, 
Like  words  congeal'd  in  northern  air. 
He  knew  what 's  what,  and  that 's  as  high 
As  metaphysic  wit  can  fly: 
In  school-divinity  as  able 
As  he  that  hight  Irrefragable ; 
A  second  Thomas,  or,  at  once 
To  name  them  all,  another  Dunce : 
Profound  in  all  the  Nominal 
And  Real  ways  beyond  them  all; 
For  he  a  rope  of  sand  could  twist 
As  tough  as  learned  Sorbonist, 
And  weave  fine  cobwebs,  fit  for  skull 
That 's  empty  when  the  moon  is  full ; 
Such  as  take  lodgings  in  a  head 
That's  to  be  let  unfurnished. 

He  could  raise  scruples  dark  and  nice, 
And  after  solve  'em  in  a  trice ; 
As  if  Divinity  had  catch'd 
The  itch,  on  purpose  to  be  scratch'd ; 
Or,  like  a  mountebank,  did  wound 
And  stab  herself  with  doubts  profound, 
45* 


534  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Only  to  show  with  how  small  pain 

The  sores  of  Faith  are  cured  again; 

Altho'  by  woful  proof  we  find 

They  always  leave  a  scar  behind. 

He  knew  the  seat  of  Paradise, 

Could  tell  in  what  degree  it  lies, 

And,  as  he  was  dispos'd,  could  prove  it 

Below  the  moon,  or  else  above  it ; 

What  Adam  dreamt  of,  when  his  bride 

Came  from  her  closet  in  his  side ; 

Whether  the  Devil  tempted  her 

By  a  high  Dutch  interpreter; 

If  eifher  of  them  had  a  navel ; 

Who  first  made  music  malleable ; 

Whether  the  Serpent,  at  the  Fall, 

Had  cloven  feet,  or  none  at  all : 

All  this,  without  a  gloss  or  comment, 

He  could  unriddle  in  a  moment, 

In  proper  terms,  such  as  men  smatter 

When  they  throw  out  and  miss  the  matter. 


For  his  religion,  it  was  fit 
To  match  his  learning  and  his  wit: 
'Twas  Presbyterian  true  blue; 
For  he  was  of  that  stubborn  crew 
Of  errant  saints,  whom  all  men  grant 
To  be  the  true  Church  Militant; 
Such  as  do  build  their  faith  upon 
The  holy  text  of  pike  and  gun; 
Decide  all  controversies  by 
Infallible  artillery; 
And  prove  their  doctrine  orthodox, 
By  apostolic  blows  and  knocks ; 
Call  fire  and  sword,  and  desolation, 
A  godly,  thorough  Reformation, 
Which  always  must  be  carried  on, 
And  still  be  doing,  never  done ; 
As  if  Religion  were  intended 
For  nothing  else  but  to  be  mended : 
A  sect  whose  chief  devotion  lies 
In  odd  perverse  antipathies; 
In  falling  out  with  that  or  this, 
And  finding  somewhat  still  amiss; 
More  peevish,  cross,  and  splenetic, 
Than  dog  distract,  or  monkey  sic: 


BUTLER.  535 


That  with  more  care  keep  holy  day 

The  wrong,  than  others  the  right  way ; 

Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclined  to, 

By  damning  those  they  have  no  mind  to: 

Still  so  perverse  and  opposite, 

As  if  they  worshipp'd  God  for  spite: 

The  self-same  thing  they  will  abhor 

One  way,  and  long  another  for : 

Freewill  they  one  way  disavow, 

Another,  nothing  else  attbw : 

All  piety  consists  therein 

In  them,  in  other  men  all  sin : 

Rather  than  fail,  they  will  defy 

That  which  they  love  most  tenderly; 

Quarrel  with  minc'd-pies,  and  disparage 

Their  best  and  dearest  friend,  plum-porridge; 

Fat  pig  and  goose  itself  oppose, 

And  blaspheme  custard  through  the  nose. 

Thus  was  he  gifted  and  accoutred, 
We  mean  on  th'  inside,  not  the  outward : 
That  next  of  all  we  shall  discuss , 
Then  listen,  Sirs,  it  follows  thus. 
His  tawny  beard  was  th'  equal  grace 
Both  of  his  wisdom  and  his  face ; 
In  cut  and  die  so  like  a  tile, 
A  sudden  view  it  would  beguile; 
The  upper  part  whereof  was  whey, 
The  nether  orange,  mix'd  with  grey. 
****** 

His  doublet  was  of  sturdy  buff, 
And  though  not  sword,  yet  cudgel-proof, 
Whereby  't  was  fitter  for  his  use 
Who  fear'd  no  blows  but  such  as  bruise. 
His  breeches  were  of  rugged  woollen, 
And  had  been  at  .the  siege  of  Bullen ; 
To  Old  King  Harry  so  well  known, 
Some  writers  held  they  were  his  own: 
Though  they  were  lin'd  with  many  a  piece 
Of  ammunition  bread  and  cheese, 
And  fat  black-puddings,  proper  food 
For  warriors  that  delight  in  blood. 
For,  as  we  said,  he  always  chose 
To  carry  vittle  in  his  hose, 
That  often  tempted  rats  and  mice 
The  ammunition  to  surprise; 


536  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

And  when  he  put  a  hand  but  in 
The  one  or  t'  other  magazine, 
They  stoutly  in  defence  on  't  stood, 
And  from  the  wounded  foe  drew  blood ; 
And,  till  th'  were  storm'd  and  beaten  out, 
Ne'er  left  the  fortify 'd  redoubt. 

His  puissant  sword  unto  his  side, 
Near  his  undaunted  heart,  was  tied, 
With  basket-hilt  that  would  hold  broth, 
And  serve  for  fight  and  dinner  both; 
In  it  he  melted  lead  for  bullets 
To  shoot  at  foes,  and  sometimes  pullets, 
To  whom  he  bore  so  fell  a  grutch, 
He  ne'er  gave  quarter  t'  any  such. 
The  trenchant  blade  Toledo  trusty 
For  want  of  fighting  was  grown  rusty, 
And  ate  into  itself  for  lack 
Of  somebody  to  hew  and  hack : 
The  peaceful  scabbard,  where  it  dwelt, 
The  rancor  of  its  edge  had  felt; 
For  of  the  lower  end  two  handful 
It  had  devour'd,  't  was  so  manful, 
And  so  much  scorn'd  to  lurk  in  case, 
As  if  it  durst  not  show  its  face. 
***** 

Thus  clad  and  fortify'd,  Sir  Knight 
From  peaceful  home  set  forth  to  fight. 
But  first  with  nimble  active  force 
He  got  on  th'  outside  of  his  horse: 
For  having  but  one  stirrup  ty'd 
T'  his  saddle  on  the  further  side-, 
It  was  so  short  h'  had  much  ado 
To  reach  it  with  his  desp'rate  toe; 
But  after  many  strains  and  heaves, 
He  got  up  to  the  saddle-eaves, 
From  whence  he  vaulted  into  th'  seat 
With  so  much  vigor,  strength,  and  heat, 
That  he  had  almost  tumbled  over 
With  his  own  weight,  but  did  recover 
By  laying  hold  on  tail  and  mane, 
Which  oft  he  us'd  instead  of  rein. 

But  now  we  talk  of  mounting  steed, 
Before  we  further  do  proceed, 


BUTLER.  537 


It  doth  behove  us  to  say  something 
Of  that  which  bore  our  valiant  Bumkin. 
The  beast  was  sturdy,  large,  and  tall, 
With  mouth  of  meal,  and  eyes  of  wall, 
I  would  say  eye,  for  h'  had  but  one, 
As  most  agree,  though  some  say  none. 
He  was  well  stay'd,  and  in  his  gait 
Preserv'd  a  grave,  majestic  state ; 
At  spur  or  switch  no  more  he  skipt 
Or  mended  .pace  than  Spaniard  whipt, 
And  yet  so  fiery,  he  would  bound 
As  if  he  griev'd  to  touch  the  ground; 
That  Cesar's  horse,  who,  as  fame  goes, 
Had  corns  upon  his  feet  and  toes, 
Was  not  by  half  so  tender  hooft, 
Nor  trod  upon  the  ground  so  soft: 
And  as  that  beast  would  kneel  and  stoop 
(Some  write)  to  take  his  rider  up; 
So  Hudibras  his  ('tis  well  known) 
Would  often  do  to  set  him  down. 
We  shall  not  need  to  say  what  lack 
Of  leather  was  upon  his  back, 
For  that  was  hidden  under  pad, 
And  breech  of  Knight  gall'd  full  as  bad. 
His  strutting  ribs  on  both  sides  show'd 
Like  furrows  he  himself  had  plough'd; 
For  underneath  the  skirt  of  pannel, 
'Twixt  ev'ry  two  there  was  a  channel. 

The  main  idea  of  Hudibras  having  been  already  stated,  it  only 
remains  to  add  that  Butler's  attempt  to  create,  somewhat  after  the 
fashion  of  Cervantes  in  Don  Quixote,  a  knight-errant  and  his  squire 
out  of  the  harsh,  prosaic,  and  wholly  unchivalrous  persons  of  an 
English  Presbyterian  and  an  Independent,  and  to  invest  their 
eccentric  doings  with  a  romantic,  or  even  a  picturesque,  atmos- 
phere is,  however  amusing  in  detail,  a  complete  failure  in  art. 
The  action  of  the  poem,  too,  is  remarkably  lame  and  disjointed; 
there  is  a  superfluity  of  talk  and  a  paucity  of  deed ;  and  the  whole 
length  of  the  poem  is  picketed  with  sententious  distiches  and  brist- 
ling and  challenging  witticisms.  Every  page,  however,  is  rich  in 
the  most  ingenious  allusions,  the  most  unexpected  juxtapositions 
of  images,  and  in  evidences  of  an  extraordinary  knowledge.  The 
diction,  which  is  prevailingly  colloquial,  is  not  (infrequently  gross ; 
and  the  measure  keeps  unflagging  step  to  the  sprightly  sentiment. 


JOHN   MILTON. 


O  mighty-mouth'd  inventor  of  harmonies, 

O  skill'd  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 
God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England, 
Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for  ages. 

TENNYSON. 

MILTON  shall  tell  his  own  story.  "  I  was  born  (December  9, 
1608)  at  London,  of  an  honest  family:  my  father  (he  was  a 
scrivener)  was  distinguished  by  the  undeviating  integrity  of 
his  life  ;  my  mother,  by  the  esteem  in  which  she  was  held,  and 
the  alms  which  she  bestowed.  My  father  destined  me  from  a 
child  to  the  pursuits  of  literature ;  and  my  appetite  for  knowl- 
edge was  so  voracious,  that  from  twelve  years  of  age  I  hardly 
ever  left  my  studies  or  went  to  bed  before  midnight.  This  pri- 
marily led  to  my  loss  of  sight ;  my  eyes  were  naturally  weak, 
and  I  was  subject  to  frequent  headaches  ;  which,  however,  could 
not  chill  the  ardor  of  my  curiosity,  or  retard  the  progress  of 
my  improvement. 

"  My  father  had  me  daily  instructed  in  the  grammar-school,  and 
by  other  masters  at  home :  he  then,  after  I  had  acquired  a  profi- 
ciency in  various  languages,  and  had  made  a  considerable  progress 
in  philosophy,  sent  me  (1624)  to  the  university  of  Cambridge. 
Here  I  passed  seven  years  in  the  usual  course  of  instruction  and 
study,  with  the  approbation  of  the  good,  and  without  any  stain 
upon  my  character,  till  I  took  t]ie  degree  of  Master  of  Arts.* 

"After  this  of  my  own  accord  I  retired  (1632)  to  my  father's 
house  (at  Horton  in  Buckinghamshire),  whither  I  was  accompa- 
nied by  the  regrets  of  most  of  the  fellows  of  the  college,  who 
showed  me  no  common  marks  of  friendship  and  esteem.  On  my 
father's  estate,  where  he  had  determined  to  pass  the  remainder  of 
his  days,  I  enjoyed  an  interval  of  uninterrupted  leisure,  which  I 
devoted  entirely  to  the  perusal  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  classics ; 

*  While  at  college  Milton  wrote  divers  Latin  and  English  poems,  the  most  noted 
of  which  was  the  Hymn  on  the  Nativity  (1629). 

538 


MILTON.  539 


though  I  occasionally  visited  the  metropolis,  either  for  the  sake  of 
purchasing  hooks,  or  of  learning  something  new  in  mathematics 
or  in  music,  in  which  I,  at  that  time,  found  a  source  of  pleasure 
and  amusement.*  In  this  manner  I  spent  five  years,  till  my 
mother's  death  :  I  then  hecame  anxious  to  visit  foreign  parts,  and 
particularly  Italy.  My  father  gave  me  his  permission,  and  I  left 
home  with  one  servant  (1638).  .  .  . 

''Taking  ship  at  Nice,  I  arrived  at  Genoa,  and  afterward  visited 
Leghorn,  Pisa,  and  Florence.  In  the  latter  city,  which  I  have 
always  more  particularly  esteemed  for  the  elegance  of  its  dialect, 
its  genius,  and  its  taste,  I  stopped  about  two  months  ;  when  I  con- 
tracted an  intimacy  with  many  persons  of  rank  and  learning,  and 
was  a  constant  attendant  at  their  literary  parties  ;  a  practice  which 
prevails  there,  and  tends  so  much  to  the  diffusion  of  knowledge 
and  the  preservation  of  friendship.  .  .  . 

"  From  Florence  I  went  to  Sienna,  thence  to  Rome ;  where,  after 
I  had  spent  about  two  months  in  viewing  the  antiquities  of  that 
renowned  city,  where  I  experienced  the  most  friendly  attentions 
from  Lucas  Holstein  and  other  learned  and  ingenious  men,  I  con- 
tinued my  route  to  Naples;  there  I  was  introduced  by  a  certain 
recluse,  with  whom  I  had  traveled  from  Rome,  to  John  Baptista 
Manso,  Marquis  of  Villa,  a  nobleman  of  distinguished  rank  and 
authority,  to  whom  Torquato  Tasso,  the  illustrious  poet,  inscribed 
his  book  on  '  Friendship.'  .  .  . 

"  When  I  was  preparing  to  pass  over  into  Sicily  and  Greece,  ths 
melancholy  intelligence  which  I  received  of  the  civil  commotion 
in  England  made  me  alter  my  purpose;  for  I  thought  it  base  to 
be  traveling  for  amusement  abroad  while  rny  fellow-citizens  were 
fighting  for  liberty  at  home.  'While  I  was  on  my  way  back  to 
Rome,  some  merchants  informed  me  that  the  English  Jesuits  had 
formed  a  plot  against  me  if  I  returned  to  Rome,  because  I  had 
spoken  too  freely  of  religion  :  for  it  was  a  rule  which  I  laid  down 
to  myself  in  those  places,  never  to  be  the  first  to  begin  any  conver- 
sation on  religion  ;  but,  if  any  questions  were  put  to  me  concern- 
ing my  faith,  to  declare  it  without  any  reserve  or  fear.  I  neverthe- 
less returned  to  Rome.  I  took  no  steps  to  conceal  either  my  per- 
son or  my  character ;  and  for  about  the  space  of  two  months  I 
again  openly  defended,  as  I  had  done  before,  the  reformed  religion 
in  the  very  metropolis  of  popery. 

"  By  the  favor  of  God,  I  got  back  to  Florence,  where  I  was 
received  with  as  much  affection  as  if  I  had  returned  to  my  native 

*  It  was  during  this  residence  at  home  that  Milton  wrote  his  Sonnet  to  the  Nightin- 
gale, V 'Allegro,  H  Penseroso,  Arcades,  aud  Comus. 


5J:0  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


country.  There  I  stopped  as  many  months  as  I  had  done  before, 
except  that  I  made  an  excursion  of  a  few  days  to  Lucca,  and  cross- 
ing the  Apennines,  passed  through  Bologna  and  Ferrara  to  Venice. 
After  I  had  spent  a  month  in  surveying  the  curiosities  of  this  city, 
and  had  put  on  board  a  ship  the  books  which  I  had  collected  in 
Italy,  I  proceeded  through  Verona  and  Milan,  and  along  the  Leman 
lake  to  Geneva.  In  all  those  places  in  which  vice  meets  with  so 
little  discouragement,  and  is  practiced  with  so  little  shame,  I  never 
once  deviated  from  the  paths  of  integrity  and  virtue  ;  and  perpetu- 
ally reflected  that,  though  my  conduct  might  escape  the  notice  of 
men,  it  would  not  elude  the  inspection  of  God. 

"At  Geneva  I  held  daily  conferences  with  John  Diodati,  the 
learned  professor  of  theology.  Then,  pursuing  my  former  route 
through  France,  I  returned  to  my  native  country,*  after  an  absence 
of  one  year  and  about  three  months,  (1639,)  at  the  time  when 
Charles  (I.),  having  broken  the  peace,  was  renewing  what  is  called 
the  episcopal  war  with  the  Scots.  As  soon  as  I  was  able,  I  hired  a 
spacious  house  in  the  city  for  myself  and  my  books  ;  where  I  again 
with  rapture  renewed  my  literary  pursuits,  and  where  I  calmly 
awaited  the  issue  of  the  contest,  which  I  trusted  to  the  wise  conduct 
of  Providence,  and  to  the  courage  of  the  people. 

"As  long  as  the  liberty  of  speech  was  no  longer  subject  to  control, 
all  mouths  began  to  be  opened  against  the  bishops;  some  com- 
plained of  the  vices  of  the  individuals  ;  others,  of  those  of  the  order. 
This  awakened  my  attention  and  my  zeal :  I  saw  that  a  way  was 
opening  for  the  establishment  of  real  liberty;  that  the  foundation 
was  laying  for  the  deliverance  of  man  from  the  yoke  of  slavery  and 
superstition ;  that  the  principles  of  religion,  which  were  the  first 
objects  of  our  care,  would  exert  a  salutary  influence  on  the  manners 
and  constitution  of  the  republic;  and  as  I  had  from  my  youth 
studied  the  distinctions  between  religious  and  civil  rights,  I  per- 
ceived that,  if  I  ever  wished  to  be  of  use,  I  ought  at  least  not  to  be 
wanting  to  my  country,  to  the  church,  and  to  so  many  of  my  fellow- 
Christians,  in  a  crisis  of  so  much  danger.  I  therefore  determined 
to  relinquish  the  other  pursuits  in  which  I  was  engaged,  and  to 
transfer  the  whole  force  of  my  talents  and  my  industry  to  this  one 
important  object."! 

The  foregoing  narrative  embraces  the  events  of  what  may  be 
called  the  first  period  of  Milton's  life — the  period  of  generous 
culture,  of  poetic  preparation,  and,  to  no  slight  extent,  of  poetic 
achievement.  Beginning  with  the  year  1640,  and  extending  over 

*  While  in  Italy  he  also  visited  the  renowned  astronomer  Galileo, 
t  Extracted  from  Milton's  Second  Defense  <J  the  People,  cf  England. 


MILTON.  541 


a  period  of  twenty  years,  we  encounter  a  totally  different  phase  of 
life  and  mental  activity.  Herein  we  behold  the  student  of  literature 
transformed  into  the  teacher  of  statecraft,  the  sweet  and  solemn 
poet  into  the  radical  and  bitter  tractarian,  and  the  lover  of  classic 
lore  and  of  nature's  peaceful  and  sequestered  walks,  into  the 
clamorous  advocate  of  political,  social,  and  religious  innovations. 
Among  the  earliest  fruits  of  this  new  life  was  An  Apology  for  Smec- 
tymnuus,  which  was  issued  in  1641,  and  was  a  justification  of  the 
conclusions  of  a  previous  pamphlet  directed  against  the  character 
of  Charles  I. 

Unhappily  married,  we  find  him  in  1644  pleading,  in  opposition 
to  existing  laws  and  public  sentiment,  his  own  views  on  the  subject 
of  divorce,  in  the  four  tracts  entitled,  Doctrine  and  Discipline  of 
Divorce,  Tetrachordon,  The  Judgment  of  the  famous  Martin  Bucer, 
touching  Divorce,  and  Colasterion.  In  the  same  year  he  published 
his  Tractate  of  Education,  and,  what  is  allowed  to  be  his  finest  prose 
production,  the  Areopagitica — a  Speech  for  the  Liberty  of  Unlicensed 
Printing.  The  most  celebrated  of  his  remaining  prose  writings  are 
The  Tenure  of  Kings  and  Magistrates  (1648)  and  his  Drfensio  pro 
Populo  Anglicano.  The  latter  was  written  in  1651,  by  order  of  the 
State,  in  vindication  of  the  late  conduct  of  the  English  people  in 
dethroning  and  beheading  Charles  I. ;  and  was  a  reply  to  a  pamphlet 
by  Salmasius,  reputed  to  be  one  of  the  greatest  scholars  of  the  age. 

In  1648,  Milton  was  appointed  secretary  for  the  foreign  tongues, 
which  office  he  held  until  a  short  time  before  the  Restoration.  In 
1652,  a  great  affliction  befell  our  poet  in  the  total  loss  of  his  eye- 
sight. Yet  he  continued,  with  the  aid  of  an  assistant,  to  discharge 
the  duties  of  his  secretaryship  until  1659,  when  he  retired  from 
public  life.  But  the  privacy  and  quietude  which  he  now  sought 
were  not  at  once  secured;  for  Charles  II.,  recognizing  the  weight 
of  Milton's  influence  in  the  late  transactions  of  the  Commonwealth, 
imprisoned  him  as  a  regicide.  Whether  it  was  his  reputation  for 
learning,  or  his  age  and  infirmity,  or  the  intercession  of  influential 
friends  that  prevailed  with  the  king,  is  not  known ;  but  certain  it 
is,  that  after  a  few  months'  confinement  he  was  set  at  liberty.  As 
the  doors  of  his  prison  closed  behind  him,  there  flew  open  before 
his  inner  vision  the  pearly  gates  of  a  new  and  supernal  state. 

Upon  a  man  well  advanced  in  years,  totally  blind,  with  few 
material  and  still  fewer  domestic  comforts  about  him,  quite  iso- 
lated from  society,  mentally  abstracted  from  the  turmoil  of  a  late 
public  career,  and  wholly  absorbed  in  sublime  and  spiritual  imag- 
inings, we  are  now  to  gaze.  By  twenty  years  of  incessant  and 
excessive  labor  as  a  controversialist  upon  political,  social,  and 
40 


542  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

theological  questions,  one  would  suppose  that  the  poetic  predilec- 
tions of  his  early  years  had  been  thoroughly  eradicated;  but,  won- 
derful to  contemplate,  up  through  these  superincumbent  sands  of 
controversy  there  now  reappears  the  germinal  nature  of  the  man, 
suddenly  to  display  itself  in  a  transcendent  florescence  and  fruitage. 

Several  years  elapse  from  the  date  of  his  retirement,  when,  in 
1667,  Milton  appears  as  the  author  of  a  manuscript  which  he  dis- 
poses of  to  one  Samuel  Simmons  for  the  immediate  payment  of 
five  pounds,  Jin  additional  five  pounds  being  pledged  upon  the 
sale  of  each  succeeding  edition  of  thirteen  hundred  copies.  This 
manuscript  was  Paradise  Lost,  the  sublimest  epic  ever  penned  by 
hand  uninspired.  Only  two  editions  of  the  poem  were  sold  during 
Milton's  remaining  years. 

In  1670  appeared  our  poet's  History  of  England,  carried  down  to 
the  Norman  Conquest.  The  next  year  were  published  Paradise 
Regained,  and  Samson  Agonistes.  Though  Milton's  literary  activity 
did  not  exhaust  itself  in  the  production  of  the  above  immortal 
poems,  yet  nothing  of  comparative  merit  was  subsequently  writ- 
ten. Milton  died  tranquilly  at  his  home  in  Bunhill  fields,  on  Sun- 
day, November  8,  1674. 

The  following  extracts  from  Areopagitica  must  suffice  as  speci- 
mens of  Milton's  mastery  as  a  writer  of  prose: 

I  deny  not  but  that  it  is  of  greatest  concernment  in  the  church  and 
commonwealth,  to  have  a  vigilant  eye  how  books  demean  themselves,  as 
well  as  men ;  and  thereafter  to  confine,  imprison,  and  do  sharpest  justice 
on  them  as  malefactors ;  for  books  are  not  absolutely  dead  things,  but  do 
contain  a  progeny  of  life  in  them  to  be  as  active  as  that  soul  was  wrhose 
progeny  they  are ;  nay,  they  do  preserve  as  in  'a  vial  the  purest  efficacy 
and  extraction  of  that  living  intellect  that  bred  them.  I  know  they  are 
as  lively,  and  as  vigorously  productive,  as  those  fabulous  dragon's  teeth ; 
and  being  sown  up  and  down,  may  chance  to  spring  up  armed  men.  And 
yet,  on  the  other  hand,  unless  wariness  be  used,  as  good  almost  kill  a  man 
as  kill  a  good  book :  who  kills  a  man  kills  a  reasonable  creature,  God's 
image;  but  he  who  destroys  a  good  book,  kills  reason  itself,  kills  the 
image  of  God,  as  it  were,  in  the  eye.  Many  a  man  lives  a  burden  to  the 
earth ;  but  a  good  book  is  the  precious  life-blood  of  a  master-spirit,  em- 
balmed and  treasured  up  on  purpose  to  a  life  beyond  life. 

It  is  true,  no  age  can  restore  a  life,  whereof,  perhaps,  there  is  no  great 
loss ;  and  revolutions  of  ages  do  not  oft  recover  the  loss  of  a  rejected  truth, 
for  the  want  of  which  whole  nations  fare  the  worse.  We  should  be  wary, 
therefore,  what  persecution  we  raise  against  the  living  labors  of  public 
men,  how  we  spill  that  seasoned  life  of  man,  preserved  and  stored  up  in 
books ;  since  we  see  a  kind  of  homicide  may  be  thus  committed,  sometimes 
a  martyrdom ;  and  if  it  extend  to  the  whole  impression,  a  kind  of  mas- 
sacre, whereof  the  execution  ends  not  in  the  slaying  of  an  elemental  life, 
but  strikes  at  the  ethereal  and  fifth  essence,  the  breath  of  reason  itself; 
slays  an  immortality  rather  than  a  life. 
*  *  #"•*  #  #  *  *  #  * 


MILTON.  543 


A  wealthy  man,  addicted  to  his  pleasure  and  to  his  profits,  finds  religion 
to  be  a  traffic  so  entangled,  and  of  so  many  piddling  accounts,  that  of  all 
mysteries  he  cannot  skill  to  keep  a  stock  going  upon  that  trade.  What 
should  he  do?  Fain  he  would  have  the  name  to  be  religious,  fain  he 
would  bear  up  with  his  neighbors  in  that.  What  does  he,  therefore,  but 
resolves  to  give  over  toiling,  and  to  find  himself  out  some  factor,  to  whose 
care  and  credit  he  may  commit  the  whole  managing  of  his  religious  affairs ; 
some  divine  of  note  and  estimation  that  must  be.  To  him  he  adheres, 
resigns  the  whole  warehouse  of  his  religion,  with  all  the  locks  and  keys, 
into  his  custody;  and  indeed  makes  the  very  person  of  that  man  his 
religion ;  esteems  his  associating  with  him  a  sufficient  evidence  and  com- 
mendatory of  his  own  piety.  So  that  a  man  may  say  his  religion  is  now 
no  more  within  himself,  but  is  become  a  dividual  movable,  and  goes  and 
comes  near  him,  according  as  that  good  man  frequents  the  house.  He 
entertains  him,  gives  him  gifts,  feasts  him,  lodges  him ;  his  religion  comes 
home  at  night,  prays,  is  liberally  supped,  and  sumptuously  laid  to  sleep ; 
rises,  is  saluted,  and  after  the  malmsey,  or  some  well-spiced  bruage,  and 
better  breakfasted  than  He  whose  morning  appetite  would  have  gladly  fed 
on  green  figs  between  Bethany  and  Jerusalem,  his  religion  walks  abroad 
at  eight,  and  leaves  his  kind  entertainer  in  the  shop  trading  all  day  with- 
out his  religion. 
*--x-#-&###*## 

Truth  indeed  came  into  the  world  with  her  divine  master,  and  was  a 
perfect  shape  most  glorious  to  look  on :  but  when  he  ascended,  and  his 
apostles  after  him  were  laid  asleep,  there  straight  arose  a  wicked  race  of 
deceivers,  who,  as  that  story  goes  of  the  Egyptian  Typhon  with  his  con- 
spirators, hewed  her  lovely  form  into  a  thousand  pieces,  and  scattered 
them  to  the  four  winds.  From  that  time  ever  since,  the  sad  friends  of 
Truth,  such  as  durst  appear,  imitating  the  careful  search  that  Isis  made 
for  the  mangled  body  of  Osiris,  went  up  and  down  gathering  up  limb  by 
limb  still  as  they  could  find  them.  We  have  not  yet  found  them  all,  lords 
and  commons,  nor  ever  shall  do,  till  her  Master's  second  coming ;  he  shall 
bring  together  every  joint  and  member,  and  shall  mold  them  into  an 
immortal  feature  of  loveliness  and  perfection.  Suffer  not  these  licensing 
prohibitions  to  stand  at  every  place  of  opportunity  forbidding  and  disturb- 
ing them  that  continue  seeking,  that  continue  to  do  our  obsequies  to  the 
torn  body  of  our  martyred  saint. 

We  boast  our  light ;  but  if  we  look  not  wisely  on  the  sun  itself,  it  smites 
us  into  darkness.  *  Who  can  discern  those  planets  that  are  oft  combust,  and 
those  stars  of  brightest  magnitude  that  rise  and  set  with  the  sun,  until  the 
opposite  motion  of  their  orbs  bring  them  to  such  a  place  in  the  firmament, 
where  they  may  be  seen  evening  or  morning  ?  The  light  which  we  have 
gained  was  given  us,  not  to  be  ever  staring  on,  but  by  it  to  discover  onward 
things  more  remote  from  our  knowledge.  It  is  not  the  unfrocking  of  a 
priest,  the  unmitring  of  a  bishop,  and  the  removing  him  from  off  the  pres- 
byterian  shoulders,  that  will  make  us  a  happy  nation :  no ;  if  other  things 
as  great  in  the  church,  and  in  the  rule  of  life  both  economical  and  politi- 
cal, be  not  looked  into  and  reformed,  we  have  looked  so  long  on  the  blaze 
that  Zuinglius  and  Calvin  have  beaconed  up  to  us,  that  we  are  stark  blind. 
•K-K**-**-**-** 

Now  once  again  by  all  the  concurrence  of  signs,  and  by  the  general 
instinct  of  holy  and  devout  men,  as  they  daily  and  solemnly  express  their 
thoughts,  God  is  decreeing  to  begin  some  new  and  great  period  in  his 


544  MANUAL    OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 


church,  even  to  the  reforming  of  reformation  itself;  what  does  he  then 
but  reveal  himself  to  his  servants,  and  as  his  manner  is,  first  to  his  Eng- 
lishmen ?  I  say,  as  his  manner  is,  first  to  us,  though  we  mark  not  the 
method  of  his  counsels,  and  are  unworthy.  Behold  now  this  vast  city 
(London),  a  city  of  refuge,  the  mansion-house  of  liberty,  encompassed  and 
surrounded  with  his  protection;  the  shop  of  war  hath  not  there  more 
anvils  and  hammers  working,  to  fashion  out  the  plates  and  instruments  of 
armed  justice  in  defense  of  beleaguered  truth,  than  there  be  pens  and  heady 
there,  sitting  by  their  studious  lamps,  musing,  searching,  revolving  new 
notions  and  ideas  wherewith  to  present,  as  with  their  homage  and  their 
fealty,  the  approaching  reformation ;  others  as  fast  reading,  trying  all 
things,  assenting  to  the  force  of  reason  and  convincement.  .  .  . 

Yet  these  are  the  men  cried  out  against  for  schismatics  and  sectaries,  as 
if,  while  the  temple  of  the  Lord  was  building,  some  cutting,  some  squaring 
the  marble,  others  hewing  the  cedars,  there  should  be  a  sort  of  irrational 
men,  who  could  not  consider  there  must  be  many  schisms  and  many  dis- 
sections made  in  the  quarry  and  in  the  timber  ere  the  house  of  God  can 
be  built.  And  when  every  stone  is  laid  artfully  together,  it  cannot  be 
united  into  a  continuity,  it  can  but  be  contiguous  in  this  world :  neither 
can  every  piece  of  the  building  be  of  one  form  ;  nay,  rather  the  perfection 
consists  in  this,  that  out  of  many  moderate  varieties  and  brotherly  dis- 
similitudes that  are  not  vastly  disproportional,  arises  the  goodly  and  the 
graceful  symmetry  that  commends  the  whole  pile  and  structure.  .  .  . 

First,  when  a  city  shall  be  as  it  were  besieged  and  blocked  about,  her 
navigable  river  ini'ested,  inroads  and  incursions  round,  defiance  and  battle 
oft  rumored  to  be  marching  up,  even  to  her  walls  and  suburb  trenches ; 
that  then  the  people,  or  the  greater  part,  more  than  at  other  times,  wholly 
taken  up  with  the  study  of  highest  and  most  important  matters  to  be 
reformed,  should  be  disputing,  reasoning,  reading,  inventing,  discoursing, 
oven  to  a  rarity  and  admiration,  things  not  before  discoursed  or  written  of, 
argues  first  a  singular  good  will,  contentedness,  and  confidence  in  your 
prudent  foresight  and  safe  government,  lords  and  commons;  and  from 
thence  derives  itself  to  a  gallant  bravery  and  well-grounded  contempt  of 
their  enemies,  as  if  there  were  no  small  number  of  as  great  spirits  among 
us,  as  his  was  who,  when  Rome  was  nigh  besieged  by  Hannibal,  being  in 
the  city,  bought  that  piece  of  ground  at  no  cheap  rate  whereon  Hannibal 
himself  encamped  his  own  regiment. 

Next,  it  is  a  lively  and  cheerful  presage  of  our  happy  success  and  vic- 
tory. For  as  in  a  body  when  the  blood  is  fresh,  the  spirits  pure  and  vigor- 
ous, not  only  to  vital,  but  to  rational  faculties,  and  those  in  the  acutest 
and  the  pertest  operations  of  wit  and  subtlety,  it  argues  in  what  good 
plight  and  constitution  the  body  is ;  so  when  the  cheerfulness  of  the  people 
is'so  sprightly  up,  as  that  it  has  not  only  wherewith  to  guard  well  its  own 
freedom  and  safety,  but  to  spare,  and  to  bestow  upon  the  solidest  and  sub- 
limest  points  of  controversy  and  new  invention,  it  betokens  us  not  degen- 
erated, nor  drooping  to  a  fatal  decay,  by  casting  off  the  old  and  wrinkled 
skin  of  corruption  to  outlive  these  pangs  and  wax  young  again,  entering 
the  glorious  ways  of  truth  and  prosperous  virtue,  destined  to  become  great 
and  honorable  in  these  latter  ages. 

Methinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and  puissant  nation  rousing  herself 
like  a  strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shaking  her  invincible  locks :  methinks 
1  see  her  as  an  eagle  mewing  her  mighty  youth,  and  kindling  her  undaz- 
•uled  eyes  at  the  full  midday  beam  ;  purging  and  unsealing  her  long-abused 


MILTON.  545 


sight  at  the  fountain  itself  of  heavenly  radiance ;  while  the  whole  noise 
of  timorous  and  nocking  birds,  with  those  also  that  love  the  twilight, 
flutter  about,  amazed  at  what  she  means,  and  in  their  envious  gabble  would 
prognosticate  a  year  of  sects  and  schisms. 

From  Paradise  Lost  we  select  the  following  passages  as  repre- 
sentative severally  of  the  sublimity,  sweetness,  and  tenderness 
of  Milton's  poetic  genius : 

BOOK  I. — Beginning  with  line  192. 

Thus  Satan, 

"With  head  uplift  above  the  waves,  and  eyes 
That  sparkling  blazed;  his  other  parts  besides 
Prone  on  the  flood,  extended  long  and  large, 
Lay  floating  many  a  rood ;  in  bulk  as  huge 
As  whom  the  fables  name,  of  monstrous  size, 
Titanian,  or  Earth-born,  that  warr'd  on  Jove, 
Briareos,  or  Typhon,  whom  the  den 
By  ancient  Tarsus  held ;  or  that  sea-beast 
Leviathan,  which  God  of  all  his  works 
Created  hugest  that  swim  the  ocean  stream: 
Him,  haply,  slumbering  on  the  Norway  foam, 
The  pilot  of  some  small  night-foundered  skiff, 
Deeming  some  island,  oft,  as  seamen  tell, 
With  fixed  anchor  in  his  scaly  rind 
Moors  by  his  side  under  the  lee,  while  night 
Invests  the  sea,  and  wished  morn  delays. 

So  stretch'd  out  huge  in  length  the  arch-fiend  lay, 
Chain'd  on  the  burning  lake ;  nor  ever  thence 
Had  risen  or  heaved  his  head,  but  that  the  will 
And  high  permission  of  all-ruling  Heaven 
Left  him  at  large  to  his  own  dark  designs; 
That  with  reiterated  crimes  he  might 
Heap  on  himself  damnation,  while  he  sought 
Evil  to  others;  and  enraged  might  see 
How  all  his  malice  served  but  to  bring  forth 
Infinite  goodness,  grace,  and  mercy  shown 
On  man  by  him  seduced:  but  on  himself 
Treble  confusion,  wrath,  and  vengeance  pour'd. 

Is  this  the  region,  this  the  soil,  the  clime, 
Said  then  the  lost  archangel,  this  the  seat, 
That  we  must  change  for  heaven?  this  mournful  gloom 
For  that  celestial  light  ?    Be  it  so,  since  he, 
Who  now  is  Sovran,  can  dispose  and  bid 
AVhat  shall  be  right:  farthest  from  him  is  best, 
4t>*  2K 


546  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Whom  reason  hath  equal'd,  force  hath  made  supreme 
Above  his  equals.    Farewell,  happy  fields, 
Where  joy  forever  dwells !     Hail,  horrors ;  hail, 
Infernal  world !  and  thou,  profoundest  hell, 
Receive  thy  new  possessor;  one  who  brings 
A  mind  not  to  be  changed  by  place  or  time. 
The  mind  is  its  own  place,  and  in  itself 
Can  make  a  heaven  of  hell,  a  hell  of  heaven. 
What  matter  where,  if  I  be  still  the  same, 
And  what  I  should  be;  all  but  less  than  he 
Whom  thunder  hath  made  greater?    Here  at  least 
We  shall  be  free ;  the  Almighty  hath  not  built 
Here  for  his  envy;  will  not  drive  us  hence: 
Here  we  may  reign  secure;  and  in  my  choice 
To  reign  is  worth  ambition,  though  in  hell : 
Better  to  reign  in  hell  than  serve  in  heaven. 

BOOK  V. — Beginning  with  136th  line. 
SCENE — Paradise  ;  ADAM  and  EVE  the  speakers. 

So  all  was  cleared,  and  to  the  field  they  haste. 
But  first,  from  under  shady  arborous  roof 
Soon  as  they  forth  were  come  to  open  sight 
Of  day-spring  and  the  sun,  who,  scarce  uprisen> 
With  wheels  yet  hovering  o'er  the  ocean-brim, 
Shot  parallel  to  the  earth  his  dewy  ray, 
Discovering  in  wide  landskip  all  the  east 
Of  Paradise  and  Eden's  happy  plains, 
Lowly  they  bow'd  adoring,  and  began 
Their  orisons,  each  morning  duly  paid 
In  various  style ;  for  neither  various  style 
Nor  holy  rapture  wanted  they  to  praise 
Their  Maker,  in  fit  strains  pronounced,  or  sung 
Unmeditated ;  such  prompt  eloquence 
Flow'd  from  their  lips,  in  prose  or  numerous  verse, 
More  tuneable  than  needed  lute  to  harp 
To  add  more  sweetness ;  and  they  thus  began : 

These  are  thy  glorious  works,  Parent  of  good, 
Almighty!   thine  this  universal  frame, 
Thus  wondrous  fair ;  thyself  how  wondrous  then ! 
Unspeakable,  who  sitt'st  above  these  heavens, 
To  us  invisible,  or  dimly  seen 
In  these  thy  lowest  works;  yet  these  declare 
Thy  goodness  beyond  thought,  and  power  divine. 
Speak,  ye  who  best  can  tell,  ye  sons  of  light, 
Angels ;  for  ye  behold  him,  and  with  songs 


MILTON.  547 


And  choral  symphonies,  day  without  night, 
Circle  his  throne  rejoicing:  ye  in  heaven; 
On  earth  join  all  ye  creatures  to  extol 
Him  first,  him  last,  him  midst,  and  without  end. 

Fairest  of  stars,  last  in  the  train  of  night, 

If  better  thou  belong  not  to  the  dawn, 

Sure  pledge  of  day,  that  crown'st  the  smiling  morn 

With  thy  bright  circlet;  praise  him  in  thy  sphere 

While  day  arises,  that  sweet  hour  of  prime. 

Thou  sun,  of  this  great  world  both  eye  and  soul, 

Acknowledge  him  thy  greater ;  sound  his  praise 

In  thy  eternal  course,  both  when  thou  climb'st, 

And  when  high  noon  hast  gain'd,  and  when  thou  fall'st. 

Moon,  that  meet'st  the  orient  sun,  now  fly'st, 

With  the  fix'd  stars,  fix'd  in  their  orb  that  flies ; 

And  ye  five  other  wandering  fires,  that  move 

In  mystic  dance  not  without  song,  resound 

His  praise,  who  out  of  darkness  call'd  up  light. 

Air,  and  ye  elements,  the  eldest  birth 

Of  nature's  womb,  that  in  quaternion  run 

Perpetual  circle,  multiform,  and  mix 

And  nourish  all  things;  let  your  ceaseless  change 

Vary  to  our  great  Maker  still  new  praise. 

Ye  mists  and  exhalations,  that  now  rise 

From  hill  or  steaming  lake,  dusky  or  gray, 

Till  the  sun  paint  your  fleecy  skirts  with  gold, 

In  honor  to  the  world's  great  Author  rise ; 

Whether  to  deck  with  clouds  the  uncolor'd  sky, 

Or  wet  the  thirsty  earth  with  falling  showers, 

Rising  or  falling  still  advance  his  praise. 

His  praise,  ye  winds,  that  from  four  quarters  blow, 

Breathe  soft  or  loud ;  and  wave  your  tops,  ye  pines, 

With  every  plant,  in  sign  of  worship  wave. 

Fountains,  and  ye  that  warble,  as  ye  flow, 

Melodious  murmurs,  warbling  tune  his  praise. 

Join  voices,  all  ye  living  souls :  ye  birds, 

That  singing  up  to  heaven-gate  ascend, 

Bear  on  your  wings  and  in  your  notes  his  praise. 

Ye  that  in  waters  glide,  and  ye  that  walk 

The  earth,  and  stately  tread,  or  lowly  creep ; 

Witness  if  I  be  silent,  morn  or  even, 

To  hill  or  valley,  fountain  or  fresh  shade, 

Made  vocal  by  my  song,  and  taught  his  praise. 

Hail,  universal  Lord !  be  bounteous  still 

To  give  us  only  good ;  and  if  the  night 

Have  gather'd  ought  of  evil  or  conceal'd, 

Disperse  it,  as  now  light  dispels  the  dark. 


MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

BOOK  VI. — Beginning  with  line  189. 
Descriptive  of  the  combat  between  ABDIEL  and  SATAN. 

A  noble  stroke  he  lifted  high, 
Which  hung  not,  but  so  swift  with  tempest  fell 
On  the  proud  crest  of  Satan,  that  no  sight, 
Nor  motion  of  swift  thought,  less  could  his  shield, 
Such  ruin  intercept;  ten  paces  huge 
He  back  recoil'd;  the  tenth  on  bended  knee 
His  massy  spear  upstay'd :  as  if  on  earth 
Winds  under  ground,  or  waters  forcing  way, 
Sidelong  had  push'd  a  mountain  from  his  seat, 
Half  sunk  with  all  his  pines.    Amazement  seized 
The  rebel  thrones,  but  greater  rage,  to  see 
Thus  foil'd  their  mightiest ;  ours  joy  fill'd,  and  shout 
Presage  of  victory,  and  fierce  desire 
Of  battle:  whereat  Michael  bid  sound 
The  archangel  trumpet :  through  the  vast  of  heaven 
It  sounded,  and  the  faithful  armies  rung 
Hosanna  to  the  Highest:   nor  stood  at  gaze 
The  adverse  legions,  nor  less  hideous  join'd 
The  horrid  shock. 

Now  storming  fury  rose, 

And  clamor  such  as  heard  in  heaven  till  now 
Was  never;  arms  on  armor  clashing  bray'd 
Horrible  discord,  and  the  madding  wheels 
Of  brazen  chariots  raged :   dire  was  the  noise 
Of  conflict;  over  head  the  dismal  hiss 
Of  fiery  darts  in  flaming  volleys  flew, 
And  flying  vaulted  either  host  with  fire. 
So  under  fiery  cope  together  rush'd 
Both  battle's  main  with  ruinous  assault 
And  inextinguishable  rage.    All  heaven 
Resounded ;  and  had  earth  been  then,  all  earth 
Had  to  her  center  shook.    What  wonder?  when 
Millions  of  fierce  encountering  angels  fought 
On  either  side,  the  least  of  whom  could  wield 
These  elements,  and  arm  him  with  the  force 
Of  all  their  regions ;  how  much  more  of  power 
Army  against  army  numberless  to  raise 
Dreadful  combustion  warring ;  and  disturb, 
Though  not  destroy,  their  happy  native  seat : 
Had  not  the  eternal  King  omnipotent, 
From  his  strong  hold  of  heaven,  high  overruled 
And  limited  their  might.  .  .  . 

Long  time  in  even  scale 
The  battle  hung ;  till  Satan,  who  that  day 


MILTON.  549 


Prodigious  power  had  shown,  and  met  in  arms 
No  equal,  ranging  through  the  dire  attack 
Of  fighting  seraphim  confused,  at  length 
Saw  where  the  sword  of  Michael  smote,  and  felPd 
Squadrons  at  once;  with  huge  two-handed  sway 
Brandish'd  aloft,  the  horrid  edge  came  down 
Wide-wasting:  such  destruction  to  withstand 
He  hasted,  and  opposed  the  rocky  orb 
Of  tenfold  adamant,  his  ample  shield, 
A  vast  circumference.    At  his  approach, 
The  great  archangel  from  his  warlike  toil 
Surceased ;  and  glad,  as  hoping  here  to  end 
Intestine  war  in  heaven,  the  arch-foe  subdued 
Or  captive  dragg'd  in  chains 

Now  waved  their  fiery  swords,  and  in  the  air 

Made  horrid  circles ;  two  broad  suns  their  shields 

Blazed  opposite,  while  expectation  stood 

In  horror :   from  each  hand  with  speed  retired, 

Where  erst  was  thickest  fight,  the  angelic  throng, 

And  left  large  field,  unsafe  within  the  wind 

Of  such  commotion ;  such  as,  to  set  forth 

Great  things  by  small,  if,  nature's  concord  broke, 

Among  the  constellations  war  were  sprung, 

Two  planets,  rushing  from  aspect  malign 

Of  fiercest  opposition,  in  mid  sky 

Should  combat,  and  their  jarring  spheres  confound. 

Together  both,  with  next  to  Almighty  arm 

Uplifted  eminent,  one  stroke  they  aim'd 

That  might  determine,  and  not  need  repeat, 

As  not  of  power  at  once ;  nor  odds  appeas'd 

In  might  or  swift  prevention :  but  the  sword 

Of  Michael  from  the  armory  of  God 

Was  given  him  temper'd  so,  that  neither  keen 

Nor  solid  might  resist  that  edge:  it  met 

The  sword  of  Satan,  with  steep  force  to  smite 

Descending,  and  in  half  cut  sheer ;  nor  stay'd, 

But  with  swift  wheel  reverse,  deep  entering,  shared 

All  his  right  side. 

Then  Satan  first  knew  pain, 
And  writhed  him  to  and  fro  convolved;  so  sore 
The  grinding  sword  with  discontinuous  wound 
Pass'd  through  him:  but  the  ethereal  substance  closed, 
Not  long  divisible ;  and  from  the  gash 
A  stream  of  nectarous  humor  issuing  flow'd 
Sanguine,  such  as  celestial  spirits  may  bleed, 


550  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

And  all  his  armor  stain'd,  erewhile  so  bright. 

Forthwith  on  all  sides  to  his  aid  was  run 

By  angels  many  and  strong,  who  interposed 

Defence:  while  others  bore  him  on  their  shields 

Back  to  his  chariot,  where  it  stood  retired 

From  off  the  files  of  war:   there  they  him  laid 

Gnashing  for  anguish,  and  despite,  and  shame, 

To  find  himself  not  matchless,  and  his  pride 

Humbled  by  such  rebuke ;  so  far  beneath 

His  confidence  to  equal  God  in  power. 

Yet  soon  he  heal'd ;  for  spirits  that  live  throughout 

Vital  in  every  part,  not  as  frail  man 

In  entrails,  heart  or  head,  liver  or  veins, 

Cannot  but  by  annihilation  die ; 

Nor  in  their  liquid  texture  mortal  wound 

Receive,  no  more  than  can  the  fluid  air: 

All  heart  they  live,  all  head,  all  eye,  all  ear, 

All  intellect,  all  sense ;  and,  as  they  please, 

They  limb  themselves,  and  color,  shape,  or  size 

Assume,  as  likes  them  best,  condense  or  rare. 


The  Son  of  God  himself  now  enters  upon  the  sc'ene  of  action. 

He,  o'er  his  sceptre  bowing,  rose 
From  the  right  hand  of  Glory  where  he  sat ; 
And  the  third  sacred  morn  began  to  shine, 
Dawning  through  heaven  :  forth  rush'd  with  whirlwind  sound 
The  chariot  of  paternal  Deity, 

Flashing  thick  flames,  wheel  within  wheel  undrawn, 
Itself  instinct  with  spirit,  but  convoy'd 
By  four  cherubic  shapes ;  four  faces  each 
Had  wondrous ;  as  with  stars,  their  bodies  all 
And  wings  were  set  with  eyes ;  with  eyes  the  wheels 
Of  beryl,  and  careering  fires  between ; 
Over  their  heads  a  crystal  firmament, 
Whereon  a  sapphire  throne,  inlaid  with  pure 
Amber,  and  colors  of  the  showery  arch. 
He,  in  celestial  panoply  all  arm'd 
Of  radiant  Urim,  work  divinely  .wrought, 
Ascended ;  at  his  right  hand  Victory 
Sat  eagle-wing'd ;  beside  him  hung  his  bow 
And  quiver  with  three-bolted  thunder  stored; 
And  from  about  him  fierce  effusion  roll'd 
Of  smoke,  and  bickering  flame,  and  sparkles  dire. 


MILTON.  551 


Attended  with  ten  thousand  thousand  saints, 
He  onward  came;  far  off  his  coming  shone: 
And  twenty  thousand  (I  their  number  heard) 
Chariots  of  God,  half  on  each  hand  were  seen, 
He  on  the  wings  of  cherub  rode  sublime 
On  the  crystalline  sky,  in  sapphire  throned, 
Illustrious  far  and  wide;  but  by  his  own 
First  seen;  them  unexpected  joy  surprised, 
When  the  great  ensign  of  Messiah  blazed 
Aloft  by  angels  "borne,  his  sign  in  heaven ; 
Under  whose  conduct  Michael  soon  reduced 
His  army,  circumfused  on  either  wing, 
Under  their  Head  imbodied  all  in  one. 
Before  him  Power  Divine  his  way  prepared: 
At  his  command  the  uprooted  hills  retired 
Each  to  his  place;  they  heard  his  vt)ice  and  went 
Obsequious:  heaven  his  wonted  face  renew'd, 
And  with  fresh  flowerets  hill  and  valley  smiled. 

#*.#.*.*,* 
At  once  the  Four  spread  out  their  starry  wings 
With  dreadful  shade  contiguous,  and  the  orbs 
Of  his  fierce  chariot  roll'd  as  with  the  sound 
Of  torrent  floods,  or  of  a  numerous  host, 
He  on  his  impious  foes  right  onward  drove, 
Gloomy  as  night;  under  his  burning  wheels 
The  stedfast  empyrean  shook  throughout, 
All  but  the  throne  itself  of  God. 

Full  soon 

Among  them  he  arrived ;  in  his  right  hand 
Grasping  ten  thousand  thunders,  which  he  sent 
Before  him,  such  as  in  their  souls  infix'd 
Plagues :  they,  astonish'd,  all  resistance  lost, 
All  courage;  down  their  idle  weapons  dropp'd: 
O'er  shields,  and  helms,  and  helmed  heads  he  rode 
Of  thrones  and  mighty  seraphim  prostrate; 
That  wish'd  the  mountains  now  might  be  again 
Thrown  on  them,  as  a  shelter  from  his  ire. 
Nor  less  on  either  side  tempestuous  fell 
His  arrows  from  the  fourfold-visaged  Four. 
Distinct  with  eyes,  and  from  the  living  wheels 
Distinct  alike  with  multitude  of  eyes; 
One  spirit  in  them  ruled;  and  every  eye 
Glared  lightning,  and  shot  forth  pernicious  fire 
Among  the  accursed,  that  wither'd  all  their  strength, 
And  of  their  wonted  vigor  left  them  drain'd, 
Exhausted,  spiritless,  afflicted,  fallen. 


552  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Yet  half  his  strength  he  put  not  forth,  but  check'd 
His  thunder  in  mid  volley ;  for  he  meant 
Not  to  destroy,  but  root  them  out  of  heaven : 
The  overthrown  he  raised ;  and  as  a  herd 
Of  goats  or  timorous  flock  together  throng'd, 
Drove  them  before  him  thunder-struck,  pursued 
With  terrors  and  with  furies  to  the  bounds 
And  crystal  wall  of  heaven ;   which,  opening  wide, 
Roll'd  inward,  and  a  spacious  gap  disclosed 
Into  the  wasteful  deep :  the  monstrous  sight 
Struck  them  with  horror  backward,  but  far  worse 
Urged  them  behind:  headlong  themselves  they  threw 
Down  from  the  verge  of  heaven:  eternal  wrath 
Burn'd  after  them  to  the  bottomless  pit. 

BOOK  X-.— Beginning  with  914th  line. 

Forsake  me  not  thus,  Adam !   witness,  Heaven, 
What  love  sincere,  and  reverence  in  my  heart 
I  bear  thee,  and  unweeting  have  offended, 
Unhappily  deceived!    Thy  suppliant, 
I  beg,  and  clasp  thy  knees :  bereave  me  not, 
Whereon  I  live,  thy  gentle  looks,  thy  aid, 
Thy  counsel,  in  this  uttermost  distress 
My  only  strength  and  stay:  forlorn  of  thee, 
Whither  shall  I  betake  me,  where  subsist? 
While  yet  we  live,  scarce  one  short  hour  perhaps, 
Between  us  two  let  there  be  peace;  both  joining, 
As  join'd  in  injuries,  one  enmity 
Against  a  foe  by  doom  express  assign'd  us, 
That  cruel  serpent:   on  me  exercise  not 
Thy  hatred  for  this  misery  befallen; 
On  me  already  lost,  me  than  thyself 
More  miserable!  both  have  sinn'd;  but  thou 
Against  God  only,  I  against  God  and  thee ; 
And  to  the  place  of  judgment  will  return, 
There  with  my  cries  importune  Heaven,  that  all 
The  sentence,  from  thy  head  removed,  may  light 
On  me,  sole  cause  to  thee  of  all  this  woe ; 
Me,  me  only,  just  object  of  his  ire ! 

BOOK  XI. — Beginning  with  268th  line. 
O  unexpected  stroke,  worse  than  of  death ! 
Must  I  thus  leave  thee,  Paradise  ?  thus  leave 
Thee,  native  soil !  these  happy  walks  and  shades, 
Fit  haunt  of  gods?  where  I  had  hope  to  spend, 
Quiet  though  sad,  the  respite  of  that  day 


MILTON.  553 


That  must  be  mortal  to  us  both.    O  flowers, 

That  never  will  in  other  climate  grow, 

My  early  visitation,  and  my  last 

At  Even,  which  I  bred  up  with  tender  hand 

From  the  first  opening  bud,  and  gave  ye  names ! 

Who  now  shall  rear  ye  to  the  sun,  or  rank 

Your  tribes,  and  water  from  the  ambrosial  fount  ? 

Thee  lastly,  nuptial  bower !  by  me  adorn'd 

With  what  to  sight  or  smell  was  sweet !   from  thee 

How  shall  I  part,  and  whither  wander  down 

Into  a  lower  world,  to  this  obscure 

And  wild?  how  shall  we  breathe  in  other  air 

Less  pure,  accustom'd  to  immortal  fruits  ? 

"It  is  by  his  poetry  that  Milton  is  best  known.  By  the  general 
suffrage  of  the  civilized  world,  his  place  has  been  assigned  among 
the  greatest  masters  of  the  art.  The  most  striking  characteristic 
of  the  poetry  of  Milton  is  the  extreme  remoteness  of  the  associa- 
tions, by  means  of  which  it  acts  on  the  reader.  Its  effect  is 
produced,  not  so  much  by  what  it  expresses  as  by  what  it  sug- 
gests, not  so  much  by  the  ideas  which  it  directly  conveys,  as  by 
other  ideas  which  are  connected  with  them.  He  electrifies  the 
mind  through  conductors.  The  works  of  Milton  cannot  be  com- 
prehended or  enjoyed,  unless  the  mind  of  the  reader  cooperate 
with  that  of  the  writer.  He  does  not  paint  a  finished  picture,  or 
play  for  a  mere  passive  listener.  He  sketches,  and  leaves  others  to 
fill  up  the  outline.  He  strikes  the  key-note,  and  expects  his 
hearer  to  make  out  the  melody. 

"Of  all  the  poets  who  have  introduced  into  their  works  the 
agency  of  supernatural  beings,  Milton  has  succeeded  best.  Here 
Dante  decidedly  yields  to  him.  .  .  .  Poetry,  which  relates  to  the 
beings  of  another  world,  ought  to  be  at  once  mysterious  and  pic- 
turesque. That  of  Milton  is  so.  His  Spirits  are  unlike  those  of 
almost  all  other  writers.  His  fiends,  in  particular,  are  wonderful 
creations.  They  are  not  metaphysical  abstractions.  They  are  not 
wicked  men.  They  are  not  ugly  beasts.  They  have  no  horns,  no 
tails,  none  of  the  fee-faw-fum  of  Tasso  and  Klopstock.  They  have 
just  enough  in  common  with  human  nature  to  be  intelligible  to 
human  beings.  Their  characters  are,  like  their  forms,  marked 
by  a  certain  dim  resemblance  to  those  of  men,  but  exaggerated  to 
gigantic  dimensions  and  veiled  in  mysterious  gloom. 

"  Though  Milton  wrote  the  Paradise  Lost  at  a  time  of  life  when 
images  of  beauty  and  tenderness  are  in  general  beginning  to  fade, 
even  from  those  minds  in  which  they  have  not  been  effaced  by 
47 


554  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

anxiety  and  disappointment,  he  adorned  it  with  all  that  is  most 
lovely  and  delightful  in  the  physical  and  in  the  moral  world. 
Neither  Theocritus  nor  Ariosto  had  a  finer  or  a  more  healthful 
sense  of  the  pleasantness  of  external  objects,  or  loved  better  to 
luxuriate  amidst  sunbeams  and  flowers,  the  songs  of  nightingales, 
the  juice  of  summer  fruits,  and  the  coolness  of  shady  fountains. 
His  conception  of  love  unites  all  the  voluptuousness  of  the  Oriental 
harem,  and  all  the  gallantry  of  the  chivalric  tournament,  with  all 
the  pure  and  quiet  affection  of  an  English  fireside.  His  poetry 
reminds  us  of  the  miracles  of  Alpine  scenery.  Nooks  and  dells, 
beautiful  as  fairyland,  are  embosomed  in  its  most  rugged  and 
gigantic  elevations.  The  roses  and  myrtles  bloom  unchilled  on 
the  verge  of  the  avalanche."  * 

"  Milton's  chief  talent,  and,  indeed,  his  distinguishing  excellence, 
lies  in  the  sublimity  of  his  thoughts.  There  are  others  of  the  mod- 
erns who  rival  him  in  every  other  part  of  poetry ;  but  in  the  great- 
ness of  his  sentiments  he  triumphs  over  all  the  poets  both  modern 
and  ancient,  Homer  only  excepted.  It  is  impossible  for  the  imag- 
ination of  man  to  distend  itself  with  greater  ideas  than  those  which 
he  has  laid  together  in  his  first,  second,  and  sixth  books.  ...  By  the 
choice  of  the  noblest  words  and  phrases  which  our  tongue  would 
afford  him,  he  has  carried  our  language  to  a  greater  height  than 
any  of  the  English  poets  have  ever  done  before  or  after  him,  and 
made  the  sublimity  of  his  style  equal  to  that  of  his  sentiments."  f 

"  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  prose  writings  of  Milton  should,  in 
our  time,  be  so  little  read.  As  compositions,  they  deserve  the 
attention  of  every  man  who  wishes  to  become  acquainted  with  the 
full  power  of  the  English  language.  They  abound  with  passages 
compared  with  which  the  finest  declamations  of  Burke  sink  into 
insignificance.  They  are  a  perfect  field  of  cloth  of  gold.  The  style 
is  stiff,  with  gorgeous  embroidery.  Not  even  in  the  earlier  books 
of  the  Paradise  Lost  has  he  ever  risen  higher  than  in  those  parts  of 
his  controversial  works  in  which  his  feelings,  excited  by  conflict, 
find  a  vent  in  bursts  of  devotional  and  lyric  rapture.  It  is,  to  bor- 
row his  own  majestic  language,  '  a  sevenfold  chorus  of  hallelujahs 
and  harping  symphonies.'  "  * 


*  Lord  Macaulay's  Essay  on  Milton. 
f  Addison's  Essay  on  Paradise  Lost. 
j  Macaulay's  Essay  on  Milton. 


BEN  JONSON. 


BEN  JONSON  was  born  in  the  early  part  of  the  year  1574,  in 
(probably)  the  city  of  Westminster.  After  a  few  years  spent 
in  a  private  school,  Jonson,  through  the  kindness  of  a  friend, 
now  unknown,  was  sent  successively  to  Westminster  school  and 
to  Cambridge  University.  The  lack  of  means,  however,  ren- 
dered his  stay  at  the  university  very  brief,  and  he  returned 
home  to  pursue,  for  a  time,  his  step-father's  trade  of  bricklaying. 

But  bricklaying  so  completely  disgusted  young  Ben,  that  to 
escape  it  he  fled  to  the  Continent,  and  entered,  as  a  volunteer, 
the  army  in  Flanders.  His  service  as  a  soldier  extended  through 
only  one  campaign ;  but  it  was  signalized  by  a  successful  en- 
counter with  an  opposing  champion  in  the  presence  of  both 
armies. 

Returning  home,  Jonson,  now  about  nineteen  years  of  age, 
began  a  theatrical  career.  This  was  interrupted  for  a  time  by 
a  duel  with  a  fellow-player,  in  which  Jonson  killed  his  antag- 
onist and  was  himself  severely  wounded.  He  was  thrown  into 
prison  for  murder,  and,  to  quote  his  own  words,  "  brought  near 
the  gallows;"  but  was  subsequently  liberated.  While  incar- 
cerated, he  became,  through  the  influence  of  an  attendant  priest, 
a  convert  to  the  Roman  Catholic  faith ;  but  this  step  he  retraced 
in  maturer  years. 

Once  more  at  liberty,  Jonson  resumed  his  theatrical  pursuits, 
and,  among  the  first  of  his  dramas,  produced,  about  1596,  Every 
Man  in  his  Humor.  His  severely  classical  conception  of  dra- 
matic construction,  his  stern  moral  purpose,  and  his  high  estimate 
of  the  office  of  poetry,  rendered  this  drama,  as  also  most  of  his 
subsequent  ones,  only  tolerably  successful  as  a  play.  "  His  was 
not  language  calculated  to  win  the  audiences  of  those  days,  nor 
did  Jonson,  on  any  occasion,  stoop  to  court  their  favor  by  un- 
worthy condescensions  to  their  prejudices.  He  had  nobler  aims 

555 


556  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

in  view — to  correct  their  taste,  to  inform  their  judgment,  to 
improve  their  morals ;  and  to  these  he  steadily  adhered  through 
good  and  evil  report,  and  through  all  the  exigencies  of  his  check- 
ered life.  It  cannot,  therefore,  be  wondered  that  he  was  no 
favorite  with  the  vulgar,  and  that  those  who  trusted  for  a  part 
of  their  success  to  the  expedients  thus  openly  condemned,  should 
eagerly  raise  and  zealously  perpetrate  a  clamor  against  him."* 

This  sort  of  writing  did,  however,  commend  Jonson  to  the 
esteem  of  the  more  select  ranks  of  the  wise  and  good  and  great; 
among  them  Queen  Elizabeth  herself,  who  by  her  presence  hon- 
ored the  production  of  his  next  play — Every  Man  out  of  his 
Humor.  The  following  year  (1600),  Jonson  brought  out  Cyn- 
thia s  Revels! — a  comical  satire,  intended  to  ridicule  the  grave 
and  pedantic  manners  and  grotesque  humors  of  the  court. 

The  latter  play  proved  the  occasion  of  divers  bitter  attacks 
upon  our  poet,  not  only  from  the  parties  ridiculed,  but  also  from 
a  little  knot  of  actors,  critics,  and  playwrights,  headed  by  Mars- 
ton  and  Decker.  These  latter,  Jonson  shortly  relieved  of  the 
necessity  of  arrogating  to  themselves  the  stripes  intended  for 
others,  by  providing  them  with  a  stinging  and  unmistakable 
lampoon  in  the  Poetaster,  brought  out  in  1601.  Two  years  later, 
he  wrote  his  first  tragedy,  /Sejanus,  in  which  Shakespeare  played 
a  part. 

About  this  time,  too,  Jonson  became  a  member  of  the  cele- 
brated club  that  met  at  the  "  Mermaid ; "  where,  in  company 
with  Shakespeare,  Beaumont,  Fletcher,  and  others  hardly  less 
eminent,  he  poured  forth,  in  return  for  the  liberal  draughts  of 
wine  which  he  poured  down,  an  incessant  and  brilliant  current 
of  wit,  wisdom,  and  learning. 

In  1605,  Marston  and  Chapman  brought  out  a  comedy  called 
Eastward  Hoe!  which  reflected  somewhat  upon  the  Scotch,  and 
for  which  impunity  they  were  incarcerated  by  James.  Although 
Jonson's  part  in  the  composition  of  the  play  was  so  slight  as 
not  to  include  him  within  the  royal  displeasure,  yet,  in  magna- 
nimity of  soul,  he  voluntarily  accompanied  his  friends  to  prison, 
and  held  himself  ready  to  suffer  with  them.  They  were  all, 
however,  very  soon  released  with  whole  ears  and  noses. 

*  Memoirs  of  Lcn  Jonson,  by  \Yilliam  Gifford. 


JONSON.  557 


Up  to  this  time,  besides  accomplishing  the  literary  results 
already  noticed,  Jonson  "  had  written  several  of  his  Masques 
and  Entertainments,  and  almost  the  whole  of  his  Epigrams; 
he  had  translated  Horace,  and,  as  it  would  seem,  Aristotle's 
Poetics,  and  prepared  a  voluminous  body  of  notes  to  illustrate 
them ;  he  had  made  prodigious  collections  in  theology,  history, 
and  poetry,  from  the  best  writers,  and,  perhaps,  drawn  up  his 
grammar."*  In  1605,  he  produced  the  comedy  of  the  Fox, 
or,  Volpone.  It  was  written  in  five  weeks,  and  yet  it  has  been 
said  of  it,  that  "  The  English  stage  had  hitherto  seen  nothing 
so  truly  classical,  so  learned,  so  correct,  and  so  chaste."* 

From  1606  to  1610  inclusive,  Jonson  was  principally  engaged 
in  the  composition  of  masques  and  entertainments,  designed 
exclusively  for  the  amusement  of  the  nobility  and  the  court,  in 
the  sumptuous  privacy  of  their  palaces.  Among  these  were  the 
Masque  and  Barriers,  the  Masque  of  Beauty,  the  Masque  of 
Queens,  and  the  Masque  of  Oberon.  At  varying  intervals  of  one 
or  two  years,  beginning  with  Silent  Woman;  or,  Epicoene — which 
appeared  in  1609 — the  Alchemist,  a  comedy;  Cataline,  a  tragedy; 
Bartholomew  Fair,  and  The  Devil 's  an  Asst  were  given  to  the 
public. 

In  1613,  we  find  Jonson  in  Paris,  mingling  in  the  society  of 
the  most  distinguished  of  literary  and  court  circles ;  in  1616,  he 
has  conferred  upon  him,  by  letters-patent,  a  pension  for  life  of 
a  hundred  marks,  and,  it  is  presumed,  is  created  poet-laureate; 
and  the  two  following  years  visits  Scotland.  Here  he  makes 
the  acquaintance  of  the  poet  Drummond,  who,  in  return  for  the 
most  unbounded  confidence  and  affection  on  Jonson's  part, 
shortly  afterwards  maliciously  betrayed  to  the  public,  in  their 
most  inauspicious  phase,  our  poet's  private  judgments  concerning 
the  eminent  men  and  works  of  the  age. 

From  1616  to  1625,  Jonson  had  written  nothing  for  the  stage; 
when  in  the  latter  year,  he  brought  forth  the  comedy  the  Staple 
of  News.  About  this  time,  two  evils  began  to  harass  our  poet — 
want  and  disease.  Only  four  years  elapse,  when  we  find  him. 
confined  to  his  room,  and  writing,  from  sheer  necessity,  the 
comedy  of  the  New  Inn.  An  allusion  in  this  play  to  the  king 

*  Memoirs  of  Ben  Jonson,  by  William  Gifford. 
47* 


558  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

and  queen  touched  Charles,  and  he  sent  him  the  present  of  a 
hundred  pounds.  Subsequently,  in  answer  to  Jonson's  poetical 
Petition  to  the  best  of  Mbnarchs,  Masters,  Men,  the  king  converted 
his  annuity  of  one  hundred  marks  into  one  hundred  pounds,  and 
added,  of  his  own  accord,  a  tierce  of  our  poet's  favorite  wine. 

The  remaining,  distressful  years  of  Jonson's  life  were  pro- 
ductive of  the  Magnetic  Lady,  the  Tale  of  a  Tub,  and  several 
masques  and  epigrams.  But,  "  one  bright  and  sunny  ray  yet 
looks  through  the  gloom  which  hung  over  his  closing  hours.  In 
this  he  produced  the  Sad  Shepherd,  a  pastoral  drama  of  exquisite 
beauty,  which  may  not  only  safely  be  opposed  to  the  most  per- 
fect of  his  early  works,  but  to  any  similar  performance  in  any 
age  or  country."* 

Jonson  died  August  6,  1637,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey.     A  common   pavement   stone,  intended  as  temporary 
only,  was  laid  upon   his  grave,  upon  which  Sir  John  Young 
caused  to  be  cut  the  unique  and  significant  inscription, 
0  rare  Ben  Jonson  ! 

From  Epicoene;  or,  the  Silent  Woman,  we  make  the  following 
extract : 

A  CT  III.— SCENE  II.— A  Room  in  MOROSE'S  House. 

Enter  MOROSE— a  hater  of  aU  noise,  EPICOENE,  his  newly-married  wife 
— supposed  to  be  a  silent  woman,  PARSON,  and  CUTBEARD — a  barber. 

Mor.  Sir,  there 's  an  angel  for  yourself,  and  a  brace  of  angels  for 
your  cold.  Muse  not  at  this  manage  cf  my  bounty.  It  is  fit  we 
should  thank  fortune,  double  to  nature,  for  any  benefit  she  confers 
upon  us ;  besides,  it  is  your  imperfection,  but  my  solace. 

Par.  (Speaks  as  having  a  cold.)  I  thank  your  worship;  so  it  is  mine, 
now. 

Mor.  What  says  he,  Cutbeard  ? 

Cat.  He  says,  praesto,  sir,  whensoever  your  worship  needs  him,  he 
can  be  ready  with  the  like.  He  got  this  cold  with  sitting  up  late, 
and  singing  catches  with  cloth-workers. 

Mor.  No  more.    I  thank  him. 

Par.  God  keep  your  worship,  and  give  you  much  joy  with  your  fat 
spouse! — uh!  uh!  uh! 

Mor.  0,  O !  stay,  Cutbeard !  let  him  give  me  five  shillings  of  my 
money  back.  As  it  is  bounty  to  reward  benefits,  so  it  is  equity  to 
mulct  injuries.  I  will  have  it.  What  says  he  ? 

*  Memoirs  of  Ben  Jonson,  by  William  Gifford. 


JONS  ON.  559 


Cut.  He  cannot  change  it,  sir. 

Mor.  It  must  be  changed. 

Cut.  (Aside  to  Parson.)    Cough  again. 

Mor.  What  says  he? 

Cut.  He  will  cough  out  the  rest,  sir. 

Par.  Uh,  uh,  uh! 

Mor.  Away,  away  with  him !  stop  his  mouth !  away !  I  forgive  it. 

[Exit  CUT.  thrusting  out  the  PAR. 

Epi.  Fie,  master  Morose,  that  you  will  use  this  violence  to  a  man 
of  the  church. 

Mor.  How! 

Epi.  It  does  not  become  your  gravity,  or  breeding,  as  you  pretend, 
in  court,  to  have  offer'd  this  outrage  on  a  waterman,  or  any  more 
boisterous  creature,  much  less  on  a  man  of  his  civil  coat. 

Mor.  You  can  speak  then ! 

Epi.  Yes,  sir. 

Mor.  Speak  out,  I  mean. 

Epi.  Ay,  sir.  Why,  did  you  think  you  had  married  a  statue,  or  a 
motion  only  ?  one  of  the  French  puppets,  with  the  eyes  turned  with 
a  wire?  or  some  innocent  out  of  the  hospital,  that  would  stand  with 
her  hands  thus,  and  a  plaise-motith,  and  look  upon  you? 

Mor.  O  immodesty!  a  manifest  woman !   What!  Cutbeard! 

Epi.  Nay,  never  quarrel  with  Cutbeard,  sir;  it  is  too  late  now.  I 
confess  it  doth  bate  somewhat  of  the  modesty  I  had,  when  I  write 
simply  maid :  but  I  hope  I  shall  make  it  a  stock  still  competent  to 
the  estate  and  dignity  of  your  wife. 

Mor.  She  can  talk ! 

Epi.  Yes,  indeed,  sir. 

Enter  MUTE. 

Mor.  What  sirrah!  None  of  my  knaves  there?  where  is  this 
impostor  Cutbeard  ?  [Mute  makes  signs. 

Epi.  Speak  to  him,  fellow,  speak  to  him !  I  '11  have  none  of  this 
coacted,  unnatural  dumbness  in  my  house,  in  a  family  where  I  govern. 

[Exit  Mute. 

Mor.  She  is  my  regent  already !  I  have  married  a  Penthesilea,  a 
Semiramis ;  sold  my  liberty  to  a  distaff. 

Enter  TRUEWIT. 

True.  Where's  master  Morose? 

Mor.  Is  he  come  again !    Lord  have  mercy  upon  me ! 

True.  I  wish  you  all  joy,  mistress  Epicoene,  with  your  grave  and 
honorable  match. 

Epi..  I  return  you  the  thanks,  master  Truewit,  so  friendly  a  wish 
deserves. 


560  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Mor.  She  has  acquaintance,  too! 

True.  God  save  you,  sir,  and  give  you  all  contentment  in  your  fair 
choice,  here !  Before,  I  was  the  bird  of  night  to  you,  the  owl ;  but 
now  I  am  the  messenger  of  peace,  a  dove,  and  bring  you  the  glad 
wishes  of  many  friends  to  the  celebration  of  this  good  hour. 

Mor.  What  hour,  sir? 

True.  Your  marriage  hour,  sir.  I  commend  your  resolution,  that, 
notwithstanding  all  the  dangers  I  laid  afore  you,  in  the  voice  of  a 
night-crow,  would  yet  go  on,  and  be  yourself.  It  shows  you  a  man 
constant  to  your  own  ends,  and  upright  to  your  purposes,  that  would 
not  be  put  off  with  left-handed  cries. 

Mor.  How  should  you  arrive  at  the  knowledge  of  so  much? 

True.  Why,  did  you  ever  hope,  sir,  committing  the  secrecy  of  it  to 
a  barber,  that  less  than  the  whole  town  should  know  it  ?  you  might 
as  w^ell  have  told  it  the  conduit,  or  the  bake-house,  or  the  infantry 
that  follow  the  court,  and  with  more  security.  Could  your  gravity 
forget  so  old  and  so  noted  a  remnant,  as  lippis  et  tonsoribus  notumf 
Well,  sir,  forgive  it  yourself,  now,  the  fault,  and  be  communicable 
with  your  friends.  Here  will  be  three  or  four  fashionable  ladies 
from  the  college  to  visit  you  presently,  and  their  train  of  minions 
and  followers. 

Mor.  Bar  my  doors!  bar  my  doors!  Where  are  all  my  eaters?  my 
mouths,  now? — [Enter  Servants.]  Bar  my  doors,  you  varlets! 

Epi.  He  is  a  varlet  that  stirs  to  such  an  office.  Let  them  stand 
open.  I  would  see  him  that  dares  move  his  eyes  toward  it.  Shall  I 
have  a  barricade  made  against  my  friends,  to  be  barr'd  of  any  pleasure 
they  can  bring  in  to  me,  with  their  honorable  visitation? 

[Exeunt  Servants. 

Mor.  0  Amazonian  impudence! 

True.  Nay,  faith,  in  this,  sir,  she  speaks  but  reason.  .  .  .  Give  the 
day  to  open  pleasures,  and  jollities  of  feasting,  of  music,  of  revels,  of 
discourse;  we'll  have  all,  sir,  that  may  make  your  Hymen  high  and 
happy. 

Mor.  O  my  torment,  my  torment ! 

True.  Nay,  if  you  endure  the  first  half  hour,  sir,  so  tediously,  and 
with  this  irksomeness,  what  comfort  and  hope  can  this  fair  gentle- 
woman make  to  herself  hereafter,  in  the  consideration  of  so  many 
years  as  are  to  come. 

Mor.  Of  my  affliction.    Good  sir,  depart,  and  let  her  do  it  alone. 

True.  I  have  done,  sir. 

Mor.  That  cursed  barber. 

True.  Yes,  faith,  a  cursed  wretch  indeed,  sir. 

Mor.  I  have  married  his  cittern,  that 's  common  to  all  men.  Some 
plague  above  the  plague — 


JONSON.  561 


True.  All  Egypt's  ten  plagues. 

Mor.  Revenge  me  on  him ! 

True.  'T  is  very  well,  sir.  If  you  laid  on  a  curse  or  two  more,  I  '11 
assure  you  he  '11  bear  them.  As,  that  may  he  get  the  small-pox  with 
seeking  to  cure  it,  sir ;  or,  that  while  he  is  curling  another  man's  hair, 
his  own  may  drop  off;  or,  for  burning  some  fellow's  lock,  he  may 
have  his  brain  beat  out  with  the  curling-iron. 

Mor.  No,  let  the  wretch  live  wretched.  May  he  get  the  itch,  and 
•  his  shop  so  lousy  as  no  man  dare  come  at  him,  nor  he  come  at  no  man ! 

True.  Ay,  and  if  he  would  swallow  all  his  balls  for  pills,  let  not 
them  purge  him. 

Mor.  Let  his  warming-pan  be  ever  cold. 

True.  A  perpetual  frost  underneath  it,  sir. 

Mor.  Let  him  never  hope  to  see  fire  again. 

True.  But  in  hell,  sir. 

Mor.  His  chairs  be  always  empty,  his  scissors  rust,  and  his  combs 
mould  in  their  cases. 

True.  Very  dreadful  that !  And  may  he  lose  the  invention,  sir,  of 
carving  lanterns  in  paper. 

Mor.  Let  him  be  glad  to  eat  his  sponge  for  bread. 

True.  And  drink  lotium  to  it,  and  much  good  do  him. 

Mor.  Or,  for  want  of  bread — 

True.  Eat  ear-wax,  sir.  I  '11  help  you.  Or,  draw  his  own  teeth, 
and  add  them  to  the  lute-string. 

Mor.  No,  beat  the  old  ones  to  powder,  and  make  bread  of  them. 

True.  Yes,  make  meal  of  the  mill-stones. 

Mor.  May  all  the  botches  and  burns  that  he  has  cured  on  others 
break  out  upon  him. 

True.  And  he  now  forget  the  euro  of  them  in  himself,  sir ;  or,  if  he 
do  remember  it,  let  him  have  scraped  all  his  linen  into  lint  for 't,  and 
have  not  a  rag  left  him  for  to  set  up  with. 

Mor.  Let  him  never  set  up  again,  but  have  the  gout  in  his  hands 
forever ! — Now,  no  more,  sir. 

True.  O,  that  last  was  too  high  set ;  you  might  go  less  with  him,  i' 
faith,  and  be  revenged  enough ;  as,  that  he  never  be  able  to  new- 
paint  his  pole— * 

Mor.  Good  sir,  no  more,  I  forgot  myself. 

True.  Or,  want  credit  to  take  up  with  a  comb-maker — 

Mor.  No  more,  sir. 

True.  Or,  having  broken  his  glass  in  a  former  despair,  fall  now  into 
u  much  greater,  of  ever  getting  another — 

Mor.  I  beseech  you,  no  more. 

2L 


562  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

True.  Or,  that  he  never  be  trusted  with  trimming  of  any  but  chim- 
ney-sweepers— 

Mor.  Sir— 

True.  Or,  may  he  cut  a  collier's  throat  with  his  razor,  by  chance- 
medley,  and  yet  be  hanged  for 't. 

Mor.  I  will  forgive  him,  rather  than  hear  any  more.  I  beseech 
.you,  sir. 

Enter  DAW,  introducing  LADY  HAUGHTY,  CENTAURE,  and  MAVIS. 

Daw.  This  way,  madam. 

Mor.  O,  the  sea  breaks  in  upon  me !  another  flood !  an  inundation ! 
I  shall  be  overwhelmed  with  noise.  It  beats  already  at  my  shores. 
I  feel  an  earthquake  in  myself  for 't. 

Daw.  'Give  you  joy,  mistress. 

Mor.  Has  she  servants,  too ! 

Daw.  I  have  brought  some  ladies  here  to  see  and  know  you.  My 
Lady  Haughty — (As  he  presents  them  severally,  Epicoene  kisses  them.) 
this  my  lady  Centaure — mistress  Dol  Mavis — mistress  Trusty,  my  lady 
Haughty's  woman.  Where 's  your  husband  ?  let 's  see  him :  can  he 
endure  no  noise  ?  let  me  come  to  him. 

Mor.  What  nomenclator  is  this ! 

True.  Sir  John  Daw,  sir,  your  wife's  servant,  this. 

Mor.  A  Daw,  and  her  servant !  O,  't  is  decreed,  'tis  decreed  of  me, 
an'  she  have  such  servants.  (Going.) 

True.  Nay,  sir,  you  must  kiss  the  ladies ;  you  must  not  go  away, 
now :  they  come  toward  you  to  seek  you  out. 

Hau.  I'  faith,  master  Morose,  would  you  steal  a  marriage  thus,  in 
the  midst  of  so  many  friends,  and  not  acquaint  us  ?  Well,  I  '11  kiss 
you,  notwithstanding  the  justice  of  my  quarrel :  you  shall  give  m.e 
leave,  mistress,  to  use  a  becoming  familiarity  with  your  husband. 

Epi.  Your  ladyship  does  me  an  honor  in  it,  to  let  me  know  he  is 
so  worthy  your  favor :  as  you  have  done  both  him  and  me  grace  to 
visit  so  unprepared  a  pair  to  entertain  you. 

Mor.  Compliment !  compliment ' 

Epi.  But  I  must  lay  the  burden  of  that  upon  my  servant  here. 

Hau.  It  shall  not  need,  Mistress  Morose ;  we  will  all  bear,  rather 
than  one  shall  be  opprest. 

Mor.  I  know  it :  and  you  will  teach  her  the  faculty,  if  she  be  to 
learn  it.  [  Walks  aside  while  the  rest  talk  apart. 

Hau.  Is  this  the  silent  woman  ? 

Cen.  Nay,  she  has  found  her  tongue  since  she  was  married,  Master 
Truewit  says. 

Hau.  O,  Master  Truewit !  save  you.  What  kind  of  creature  is  your 
bride  here  ?  she  speaks,  methinks ! 


JONSON.  563 


True.  Yes,  madam,  believe  it,  she  is  a  gentlewoman  of  very  abso- 
lute behavior,  and  of  a  good  race. 

Hau.  And  Jack  Daw  told  us  she  could  not  speak  ! 

True.  So  it  was  carried  in  plot,  madam,  to  put  her  upon  this  old 
fellow,  by  Sir  Dauphine,  his  nephew,  and  one  or  two  more  of  us :  but 
she  is  a  woman  of  an  excellent  assurance,  and  an  extraordinary 
wit  and  tongue.  You  shall  see  her  make  rare  sport  with  Daw  ere 
night.  .  .  . 

Enter  CLERIMONT,  followed  by  a  number  of  Musicians. 

Cler.  By  your  leave,  ladies.  Do  you  want  any  music?  I  have 
brought  you  variety  of  noises.  Play,  sirs,  all  of  you. 

Nor.  0,  a  plot,  a  plot,  a  plot,  upon  me !  this  day  I  shall  be  their 
anvil  to  work  on,  they  will  grate  me  asunder !  'T  is  worse  than  the 
noise  of  a  saw. 

Cler.  No,  they  are  hair,  rosin,  and  guts :  I  can  give  you  the  receipt. 

True.  Peace,  boys ! 

Cler.  Play !  I  say ! 

True.  Peace,  rascals !  You  see  who 's  your  friend  now,  sir :  take 
courage,  put  on  a  martyr's  resolution.  Mock  down  all  their  attempt- 
ings  with  patience;  'tis  but  a  day,  and  I  would  suffer  heroically. 
Should  an  ass  exceed  me  in  fortitude?  No.  You  betray  your 
infirmity  with  your  hanging  dull  ears,  and  make  them  insult: 
bear  up  bravely,  and  constantly.  [La-Foole  passes  over  the  stage 
as  a  Server,  followed  by  servants  carrying  dishes,  and  Mistress  Otter.] 
Look  you  here,  sir,  what  honor  is  done  you  unexpectedly  your 
nephew;  a  wedding-dinner  come,  and  a  knight-server  before  it, 
for  the  more  reputation :  and  fine  Mistress  Otter,  your  neighbor,  in 
the  tail  of  it. 

Mor.  Is  that  Gorgon,  that  Medusa  come  ?  hide  me,  hide  me ! 

True.  I  warrant  you,  sir,  she  will  not  transform  you.  Look  upon 
her  with  a  good  courage.  Pray  you  entertain  her,  and  conduct  your 
guests  in.  No ! — Mistress  bride,  will  you  entreat  in  the  ladies  ?  your 
bridegroom  is  so  shame-faced,  here. 

Epi.  Will  it  please  your  ladyship,  madam  ? 

Hau.  With  the  benefit  of  your  company,  mistress.  .  .  . 
Enter  CAPTAIN  OTTEK. 

True.  Captain  Otter !  what  news  ? 

Ott.  I  have  brought  my  bull,  bear,  and  horse,  in  private,  and  yonder 
are  the  trumpeters  without,  and  the  drum,  gentlemen. 

[  The  drum  and  trumpets  sound  within. 

Mor.  0,0,0! 

Ott.  And  we  will  have  a  rouse  in  each  of  them,  anon,  for  bold 
Britons,  i'  faith.  [They  sound  again. 


564  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Mor.  O,  O,  O I 

Omnes.  Follow,  follow,  follow. 

Our  remaining  extract  shall  be  from  The  /Sad  /Shepherd. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — Sherwood  Forest. — Robin  Hood's  bower  in  the  fore-ground. 

Enter  AEGLAMOUR,  the  Sad. 

Aegl.  Here  she  was  wont  to  go!  and  here!  and  here! 
Just  where  those  daisies,  pinks,  and  violets  grow  : 
The  world  may  find  the  spring  by  following  her, 
For  other  print  her  airy  steps  ne'er  left. 
Her  treading  would  not  bend  a  blade  of  grass, 
Or  shake  the  downy  blow-ball  from  his  stalk! 
But  like  the  soft  west  wind  she  shot  along, 
And  where  she  went,  the  flowers  took  thickest  root, 
As  she  had  sow'd  them  with  her  odorous  foot.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II. — Another  part  of  the  same. 
Enter  MARIAN,  FRIAR  TUCK,  JOHN,  GEORGE- A-GREEN,  and  MUCH. 

Mar.  Know  you,  or  can  you  guess,  my  merry  men, 
What  't  is  that  keeps  your  master,  Robin  Hood, 
So  long,  both  from  his  Marian  and  the  wood  ? 

Tack.  Forsooth,  madam,  he  will  be  here  by  noon, 
And  prays  it  of  your  bounty,  as  a  boon, 
That  you  by  then  have  kill'd  him  venison  some, 
To  feast  his  jolly  friends,  who  hither  come 
In  threaves  to  frolic  with  him,  and  make  cheer : 
Here's  Little  John  hath  harbor'd  you  a  deer, 
I  see  by  his  tackling. 

John.  And  a  hart  of  ten, 

I  trow  he  be,  madam,  or  blame  your  men : 
For  by  his  slot,  his  entries,  and  his  port, 
His  frayings,  fewmets,  he  doth  promise  sport, 
And  standing  'fore  the  dogs ;  he  bears  a  head 
Large  and  well-beam'd,  with  all  rights  summ'd  and  spread. 

Mar.  Let 's  rouse  him  quickly,  and  lay  on  the  hounds. 

John.  Scathlock  is  ready  with  them  on  the  grounds ; 
So  is  his  brother  Scarlet :  now  they  have  found 
His  lair,  they  have  him  sure  within  the  pound. 

Mar.  Away  then,  when  my  Robin  bids  a  feast, 
'Twere  sin  in  Marian  to  defraud  a  guest. 

[Exeunt  MARIAN  and  JOHN  with  the  Woodmen. 

Tack.  And  I,  the  chaplain,  here  am  left  to  be 
Steward  to-day,  and  charge  you  all  in  fee, 


JONSON.  565 


To  d'on  your  liveries,  see  the  bower  drest, 

And  fit  the  fine  devices  for  the  feast: 

You,  George,  must  care  to  make  the  baldrick  trim, 

And  garland  that  must  crown,  or  her,  or  him, 

Whose  flock  this  year  hath  brought  the  earliest  lamb. 

George.  Good  father  Tuck,  at  your  commands  I  am, 
To  cut  the  table  out  o'  the  green  sward, 
Or  any  other  service  for  my  lord : 
To  carve  the  guests  large  seats ;  and  these  lain  in 
With  turf,  as  soft  and  smooth  as  the  mole's  skin  : 
And  hang  the  bulled  nosegays  'bove  their  heads, 

*####*•** 
The  piper's  bank,  whereon  to  sit  and  play ; 
And  a  fair  dial  to  mete  out  the  day. 
Our  master's  feast  shall  want  no  just  delights, 
His  entertainments  must  have  all  the  rites. 

Much.  Ay,  and  all  choice  that  plenty  can  send  in ; 
Bread,  wine,  acates,  fowl,  feather,  fish  or  fin, 
For  which  my  father's  nets  have  swept  the  Trent — 

Enter  AEGLAMOUR. 

Aeg.  And  have  you  found  her? 

Much.  Whom? 

Aeg.  My  drowned  love, 
Earine !  the  sweet  Earine, 
The  bright  and  beautiful  Earine! 
Have  you  not  heard  of  my  Earine? 
Just  by  your  father's  mill — I  think  I  am  right — 
Are  not  you  Much,  the  miller's  son? 

Much.  I  am. 

Aeg.  And  bailiff  to  brave  Robin  Hood? 

Much.  The  same. 

Aeg.  Close  by  your  father's  mills,  Earine, 
Earine  was  drown'd !    O  my  Earine ! 
Old  Maudlin  tells  me  so,  and  Douce,  her  daughter — 
Have  you  swept  the  river,  say  you,  and  not  found  her? 

Much.  For  fowl  and  fish,  we  have. 

Aeg.  O,  not  for  her ! 

You  are  goodly  friends !   right  charitable  men ! 
Nay,  keep  your  way  and  leave  me ;  make  your  toys, 
Your  tales,  your  posies,  that  you  talk'd  of;  all 
Your  entertainments :  you  not  injure  me. 
Only  if  I  may  enjoy  my  cypress  wreath, 
And  you  will  let  me  weep,  'tis  all  I  ask, 
48 


566  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Till  I  be  turn'd  to  water,  as  was  she ! 

And  troth,  what  less  suit  can  you  grant  a  man? 

Tuck.  His  phantasie  is  hurt,  let  us  now  leave  him ; 
The  wound  is  yet  too  fresh  to  admit  searching.  [Exit. 

Aeg.  Searching !  where  should  I  search,  or  on  what  track  ? 
Can  my  slow  drop  of  tears,  or  this  dark  shade 
About  my  brows,  enough  describe  her  loss ! 
Earine  !     O  my  Earine's  loss ! 
No,  no,  no,  no  ;  this  heart  will  break  first. 

George.  How  will  this  sad  disaster  strike  the  ears 
Of  bounteous  Robin  Hood,  our  gentle  master! 

Much.  How  will  it  mar  his  mirth,  abate  his  feast  ; 
And  strike  a  horror  into  every  guest!  [Exeunt. 

Aeg.  If  I  could  knit  whole  clouds  about  my  brows, 
And  weep  like  Swithen,  or  those  watery  signs, 
The  Kids,  that  rise  then,  and  drown  all  the  flocks 
Of  those  rich  shepherds  dwelling  in  this  vale; 
Those  careless  shepherds  that  did  let  her  drown! 
Then  I  did  something:  or  could  make  old  Trent 
Drunk  with  my  sorrow,  to  start  out  in  breaches, 
To  drown  their  herds,  their  cattle,  and  their,  corn; 
Break  down  their  mills,  their  dams,  o'erturn  their  weirs, 
And  see  their  houses  and  whole  livelihood 
Wrought  into  water  with  her,  all  were  good : 
I  'd  kiss  the  torrent,  and  those  whirls  of  Trent, 
That  suck'd  her  in,  my  sweet  Earine ! 
When  they  have  cast  her  body  on  the  shore, 
And  it  comes  up  as  tainted  as  themselves, 
All  pale  and  bloodless,  I  will  love  it  still, 
For  all  that  they  can  do,  and  make  them  mad, 
To  see  how  I  will  hug  it  in  mine  arms! 
And  hang  upon  her  looks,  dwell  on  her  eyes, 
Feed  round  about  her  lips,  and  eat  her  kisses, 
Suck  off  her  drowned  flesh!— and  where's  their  malice! 
Not  all  their  envious  sousing  can  change  that. 
But  I  will  still  study  some  revenge  past  this — 

[Music  of  all  sorts  is  heard, 
I  pray  you  give  me  leave,  for  I  will  study, 
Though  all  the  bells,  pipers,  tabors,  timburines  ring, 
That  you  can  plant  about  me;  I  will  study. 

*  *  *  #  -H-  * 

Enter  ROBIN  HOOD,  CLARION,  KAROLIN,  and  others. 
Kar.  Sure  he's  here  about. 

Cla.  See  where  he  sits.     (Points  to  Aeglamour  upon  a  bank. 
Aeg.  It  will  be  rare,  rare,  rare ! 
An  exquisite  revenge !  but  peace,  no  words ! 


JONSON.  o67 


Not  for  the  fairest  fleece  of  all  the  flock : 

If  it  be  known  afore,  'tis  all  worth  nothing! 

I  '11  carve  it  on  the  trees,  and  in  the  turf, 

On  every  green  sward,  and  in  every  path, 

Just  to  the  margin  of  the  cruel  Trent. 

There  will  I  knock  the  story  in  the  ground, 

In  smooth  great  pebble,  and  moss  fill  it  round, 

Till  the  whole  country  read  how  she  was  drown'd; 

And  with  the  plenty  of  salt  tears  there  shed, 

Quite  alter  the  complexion  of  the  spring. 

Or  I  will  get  some  old,  old  grandam  thither, 

Whose  rigid  foot  but  dipp'd  into  the  water, 

Shall  strike  that  sharp  and  sudden  cold  throughout, 

As  it  shall  lose  all  virtue;  and  those  nymphs, 

Those  treacherous  nymphs  pull'd  in  Earine, 

Shall  stand  curl'd  up  like  images  of  ice, 

And  never  thaw!   mark,  never!   a  sharp  justice! 

Or  stay,  a  better !   when  the  year 's  at  hottest, 

And  that  the  dog-star  foams,  and  the  stream  boils, 

And  curls,  and  works,  and  swells  ready  to  sparkle, 

To  fling  a  fellow  with  a  fever  in, 

To  set  it  all  on  fire,  till  it  burn 

Blue  as  Scamander,  'fore  the  walls  of  Troy, 

When  Vulcan  leap'd  into  him  to  consume  him. 

Rob.  A  deep  hurt  phantasie! 

Aeg.  Do  you  not  approve  it? 

Rob.  Yes,  gentle  Aeglamour,  we  all  approve, 
And  come  to  gratulate  your  just  revenge  : 
Which,  since  it  is  so  perfect,  we  now  hope 
You  '11  leave  all  care  thereof,  and  mix  with  us, 
In  all  the  proffer'd  solace  of  the  spring. 

Aeg.  A  spring,  now  she  is  dead !  of  what  ?  of  thorns, 
Briars,  and  brambles  ?  thistles,  burs  and  docks  ? 
Cold  hemlock,  yew?  the  mandrake  or  the  box? 
These  may  grow  still ;  but  what  can  spring  beside  ? 
Did  not  the  whole  earth  sicken  when  she  died? 
As  if  there  since  did  fall  one  drop  of  dew, 
But  what  was  wept  for  her!   or  any  stalk 
Did  bear  a  flower,  or  any  branch  a  bloom, 
After  her  wreath  was  made !    In  faith,  in  faith, 
Ye  do  not  fair  to  put  these  things  upon  me. 
Which  can  in  no  sort  be :    Earine, 
Who  had  her  very  being,  and  her  name, 
With  the  first  knots  or  buddings  of  the  spring, 
Born  with  the  primrose,  or  the  violet, 
Or  earliest  roses  blown ;  when  Cupid  smiled ; 
And  Venus  led  the  Graces  out  to  dance, 


568  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

And  all  the  flowers  and  sweets  in  nature's  lap 

Leap'd  out,  and  made  their  solemn  conjuration, 

To  last  but  while  she  lived!    Do  not  I  know 

How  the  vale  wither'd  the  same  day  ?  how  Dove, 

Dean,  Eye,  and  Erwash,  Idel,  Snite  and  Soare, 

Each  broke  his  urn,  and  twenty  waters  more, 

That  swell'd  proud  Trent,  shrunk  themselves  dry?  that  since 

No  sun  or  moon,  or  other  cheerful  star, 

Look'd  out  of  heaven,  but  all  the  cope  was  dark, 

As  it  were  hung  so  for  her  exequies! 

And  not  a  voice  or  sound  to  ring  her  knell ; 

But  of  that  dismal  pair,  the  screeching-owl, 

And  buzzing  hornet!     Hark!   hark!  hark!  the  foul 

Bird!  how  she  flutters  with  her  wicker  wings! 

Peace!  you  shall  hear  her  screech. 

Cla.  Good  Karolin,  sing, 

Help  to  divert  this  phant'sie. 

Kar.  All  I  can.     [Sings. 

Jonson's  familiarity  with  and  admiration  for  classical  literature 
imparted  to  the  entire  body  of  his  dramatic  writings  a  certain  defi- 
nite form  and  an  artistic  regularity,  which  were  singularly  foreign 
to  the  works  of  all  his  brother  dramatists.  His  plots,  which  were 
his  own,  were  elaborated  with  the  nicest  attention  to  consecutive- 
ness  and  to  a  gradual  climax  of  effect.  His  phrases,  too,  were 
symmetrical,  his  antitheses  skilfully  balanced,  and  his  whole  style 
classically  correct. 

Jonson's  genius  was  of  the  analytic  and  logical  order;  and,  ac- 
cordingly, his  men  and  women  appear  before  us  as  incarnations 
of  special  phases  of  experience, — as  personifications  of  particular 
virtues,  vices,  or  follies.  A  satirist  by  nature,  he  sought  out  the 
unsound,  the  odious,  and  the  weak  spots  of  our  humanity,  and 
contented  himself  with  rubbing  the  sore,  instead  of  applying  the 
plaster. 

Jonson's  partiality  for  antique  models  did  not,  however,  prevent 
his  employing  most  vigorously  the  unpolished,  plain,  strong,  frank 
diction  current  in  his  day;  nor  did  he  hesitate  to  portray  the  free 
manners  and  the  liberal  social  practices  of  the  times.  But  this, 
be  it  owned,  with  a  view  to  some  noble  moral  intent;  for  he  cor- 
dially hated  and  lampooned  the  false  and  vicious  in  literature  as 
well  as  in  life. 

It  is  in  the  Masques  and  Court  Entertainments  that  the  classical 
austerity  of  form  and  phrase,  so  inseparable  from  his  dramatic 
writings,  is  quite  lost  sight  of;  and  the  truer,  sweeter-souled  poet 
appears  in  rich  and  delicate  creations,  clad  in  graceful  and  melo- 
dious verse. 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


Sweet  Swan  of  Avon!   what  a  sight  it  were 

To  see  thee  in  our  water  yet  appear, 

And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Tharaea 

That  did  so  take  Eliza  and  our  James! 

But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere 

Advanced,  and  made  a  constellation  there ! 

Shine  forth,  thou  Star  of  Poets,  and  with  rage, 

Or  influence,  chide,  or  cheer  the  drooping  stage, 

Which  since  thy  flight  from  hence  hath  mourned  like  night, 

And  despairs  day,  but  for  thy  volume's  light ! 

BEN  JONSON. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEAEE  was  born  on  the  23d  of  April 
(probably),  1564,  at  Stratford  on  Avon,  Warwickshire.  His 
birthplace  was  a  small  and  venerable  town,  of  plaster-walled 
and  thatch-roofed  cottages,  washed  by  the  gently-flowing  Avon, 
over  whose  insignificant  waters  there  was  built  an  imposing 
stone  bridge.  A  goodly-sized  church,  embellished  with  pictures, 
monuments,  and  sculpture ;  a  finely-proportioned  chapel  of  the 
early  Tudor  style  of  architecture,  and  rich  in  paintings  of  sacred 
and  historical  subjects;  the  "Great  House,"  a  grand  mansion 
one  hundred  years  old  ;  a  college,  a  fine  monastic  structure  ;  the 
old  manorial  Clopton  House ;  the  grand  and  hoary  feudal  pile 
of  Warwick  Castle  ;  Kenilworth,  the  Earl  of  Leicester's  splendid 
residence ;  these,  with  a  surrounding  and  undulatory  expanse 
of  meadow,  garden,  and  wood  lands,  dotted,  not  the  most  agree- 
ably, with  stables,  cow-yards,  and  sheep-cotes,  made  up  the 
picture-book  which  Nature  and  Art  jointly  held  open  to  the 
eager  eyes  of  the  boy  William. 

From  his  eighth  until  his  sixteenth  year,  Shakespeare  attended 
the  Free  Grammar-School  of  Stratford,  where  he  acquired  a 
tolerable  knowledge  of  Latin  and  Greek,  and  such  meager 
acquaintance  with  English  as  it  was  then  the  custom  to  aspire 
to.  His  father's  business  affairs  became  sadly  involved  about 
this  time,  and  William  was  obliged  to  provide  for  his  own  future 
48  *  569 


570  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

support.  His  first  independent  steps  were  not  wise  ones ;  for, 
at  twenty-one,  we  find  him  the  husband  of  a  wife  eight  years 
his  senior,  and  the  father  of  three  children.  He  fell  into  bad 
company,  too  ;  stole  deer  from  the  park  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  as 
is  currently  reported,  and,  to  avoid  the  extremity  of  that  gentle- 
man's ire,  fled  to  London. 

If  we  follow  Shakespeare  to  the  metropolis,  whither  Sir 
Thomas'  wrath  did  not,  we  shall  presently  discover  him  per- 
forming the  parts  of  an  actor  and  a  mender  of  plays ;  the  first 
of  which  offices  he  held  to  for  the  next  twenty  years.  "  Within 
six  or  seven  years  of  his  departure  from  Stratford  a  fugitive 
adventurer,  he  had  won  admiration  from  the  public,  respect 
from  his  superiors,  and  the  consequent  hate  of  some,  and,  what 
is  so  much  harder  of  attainment,  the  regard  of  others,  among 
those  who  were  his  equals,  except  in  his  surpassing  genius."  * 
Prominent  among  the  playwrights  whom  he  thus  early  rivaled 
were  Greene,  Marlowe,  and  Peele. 

Up  to  this  time  Shakespeare  had  produced,  as  his  earliest 
original  works,  The  Comedy  of  Errors,  Loves  Labor  Lost,  and 
The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.  In  1593,  he  published  Venus 
and  Adonis,  dedicating  it  to  Henry  Wriothesly,  Earl  of  South- 
ampton ;  and  the  next  year,  appeared  the  Rape  of  Lucrece,  also 
dedicated  to  the  Earl.  The  latter  proved  singularly  appreciative 
of  these  honors,  and  munificently  rewarded  Shakespeare,  by 
which  good  fortune  he  became  a  large  owner  in  the  Globe 
Theatre,  built  about  -this  time  (1594).  The  years  from  1592  to 
1596,  inclusive,  were  fruitful  of  King  Richard  the  Third,  A 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  King 
Richard  the  Second,  several  Sonnets,  and,  in  all  probability, 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well.  Shakespeare's 
real  and  commanding  genius  had  now  won  the  confessions  not 
only  of  his  discomfited  fellow  play-writers  and  of  aristocratic 
dilettantes,  among  them  Queen  Elizabeth  herself,  but  also  of 
the  great  public.  The  next  four  years  (1596-1600)  witnessed 
the  production  of  King  John,  King  Henry  IV.,  The  Merry  Wives 
of  Windsor,  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  Twelfth  Night,  King  Henry 
V.,  As  You  Like  It,  and  Hamlet. 


'•  Life  and  Genius  of  Shakexpearc,  by  .Richard  Grant  White. 


SHAKESPEARE.  571 


"The  man  who  could  put  those  plays  upon  the  stage  at  a  time 
when  play-going  w*vs  the  favorite  amusement  of  all  the  better  and 
brighter  part  of  the  London  public,  gentle  and  simple,  was  sure  to 
grow  rich,  if  he  were  but  prudent;  and  Shakespeare  was  prudent, 
and  even  thrifty.  He  knew  the  full  worth  of  money.  And  he  snw 
that  pecuniary  independence  is  absolutely  necessary  to  him  who 
is  seeking,  as  he  sought,  a  social  position  higher  than  that  to  which 
he  was  born.  Therefore  he  looked  after  his  material  interests 
much  more  carefully  than  after  his  literary  reputation.  The  whole 
tenor  of  his  life  shows  that  he  labored  as  a  playwright  solely  that 
he  might  obtain  the  means  of  going  back  to  Stratford  to  live  the 
life  of  an  independent  gentleman.  His  income  now  began  to  be 
considerable ;  and  there  are  yet  remaining  records  of  the  care  with 
which  he  invested  his  money,  and  his  willingness  to  take  legal 
measures  to  protect  himself  against  small  losses."* 

One  of  the  first  uses  to  which  he  put  his  earnings  was  the  relief 
of  his  father's  financial  distresses.  And  not  only  did  he  prove 
equal  to  this  filial  service,  but,  in  1597,  he  was  enabled  to  purchase 
for  himself  the  "  Great  House  "  of  his  native  town. 

"The  year  1598  was  one  of -great  professional  triumph  to  Shake- 
speare. We  may  safely  accept  the  tradition  first  mentioned  by 
John  Dennis  a  century  later,  that  in  that  year  he  was  honored  with 
a  command  from  Queen  Elizabeth  to  let  her  see  his  FalstafY  in 
love,  which  he  obeyed  by  producing,  in  a  fortnight,  The  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor  in  its  earliest  form.  In  that  year,  too,  the  great- 
ness and  universality  of  his  genius  received  formal  recognition  at 
the  hands  of  literary  criticism.  Francis  Meres  published  in  1598 
a  book  called  Palladia  Tomia,  Wit's  Treasury,  which  was  a  collection 
of  sententious  comparisons,  chiefly  upon  morals,  manners,  and 
religion.  In  this  book  Shakespeare  is  awarded  the  highest  place 
in  English  poetical  and  dramatic  literature,  and  is  ranked  with  the 
great  authors  of  the  brightest  days  of  Greece  and  Home."* 

Indeed,  so  enviable  had  Shakespeare's  fame  become  at  this  time, 
that  in  1599,  and  again  the  next  year,  attempts  were  made  to  vital- 
ize and  popularize  certain  publications  of  small  merit  by  placing 
the  great  poet's  name  upon  their  title-pages.  His  name  did,  how- 
ever, legitimately  appear  during  the  first  decade  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  as  author  of  Troilus  and  Cressida,  Othello,  King  Lear,  Timon 
of  Athens,  Macbeth,  Julius  Csesar,  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  Coriolanus, 
Cymbeline,  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Wellrf  Measure  for  Measure,  Pericles, 
and  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

*  Life  and  Genius  of  Shakespeare,  by  Richard  Grant  White, 
f  In  an  amended  form. 


572  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

About  the  year  1604  Shakespeare  withdrew  from  the  stage,  where 
he  had  been  an  unwilling  and  humble  actor,  and  thereafter  devoted 
his  energies  to  his  favorite  pursuit  of  writing  plays.  Within  the 
same  year,  too,  it  is  surmised  that  our  poet  became  a  member — 
the  "sweet"  and  "gentle"  member — of  a  club  founded  by  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh,  and  which  met  at  the  "  Mermaid  " — a  favorite 
tavern  in  Bread  street.  Here  he  joined  in  social  converse  and  con- 
vivial enjoyments  with  such  rare  spirits  as  Raleigh,  Jonson,  Beau- 
mont, Fletcher,  Selden,  Colton,  Carew,  Donne,  and  others  of  like 
parts. 

In  1611,  it  is  thought,  Shakespeare,  having  disposed  of  his  the- 
atrical property,  returned  from  London  to  Stratford,  where  he 
passed  in  ease  and  elegance  the  remainder  of  his  days.  Only  three 
of  his  plays  were  produced  after  his  retirement,  namely,  77*6  Tem- 
pest, The  Winter's  Tale,  and  Henry  VIII.  He  died  on  the  fifty-sec- 
ond anniversary  of  his  birthday — April  23,  1616.  The  second  day 
after,  his  remains  were  interred  in  Stratford  Church.  Upon  the 
flagstone  which  covers  his  grave  were  inscribed  the  following  lines : 

Good  Frend  for  lesvs  sake  forbeare 
To  digg  the  dust  encloased  heare 
Blest  be  ye  man  yt  spares  thes  stones 
And  curst  be  he  yt  moves  my  bones. 

As  a  specimen  of  Shakespeare's  ability  in  the  line  of  comedy, 
and  that  exhibited  in  one  of  his  earlier  plays,  we  cite 

MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

A  CT  /.—SCENE  II. 
Enter  SNUG,  BOTTOM,  FLUTE,  SNOUT,  QUINCE,  and  STARVELING. 

Quin.  Is  all  our  company  here  ? 

Bot.  You  were  best  to  call  them  generally,  man  by  man,  accord- 
ing to  the  scrip. 

Quin.  Here  is  the  scroll  of  every  man's  name,  which  is  thought  fit, 
through  all  Athens,  to  play  in  our  interlude  before  the  duke  and 
duchess,  on  his  wedding-day  at  night. 

Sot.  First,  good  Peter  Quince,  say  what  the  play  treats  on ;  then 
read  the  names  of  the  actors ;  and  so  grow  to  a  point. 

Quin.  Marry,  our  play  is— The  most  lamentable  comedy,  and  most 
cruel  death  of  Pyramus  and  Thisby. 

Bot.  A  very  good  piece  of  work,  I  assure  you,  and  a  merry. — Now, 
good  Peter  Quince,  call  forth  your  actors  by  the  scroll;  masters, 
spread  yourselves. 

Quin.  Answer,  as  I  call  you. — Nick  Bottom,  the  weaver. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


Bot.  Ready.    Name  what  part  I  am  for,  and  proceed. 

Quin.  You,  Nick  Bottom,  are  set  down  for  Pyramus. 

Sot.  What  is  Pyramus  ?  a  lover,  or  a  tyrant  ? 

Quin.  A  lover,  that  kills  himself  most  gallantly  for  love* 

Sot.  That  will  ask  some  tears  in  the  true  performing  of  it.    If  I  do 

it,  let  the  audience  look  to  their  eyes ;  I  will  move  storms ;  I  will 

condole  in  some  measure.    To  the  rest : — Yet  my  chief  humor  is  for 

a  tyrant :   I  could  play  Ercles  rarely,  or  a  part  to  tear  a  cat  in,  to 

make  all  split. 

"The  raging  rocks, 
With  shivering  shocks, 
Shall  break  the  locks 

Of  prison  gates: 
And  Phibbus'  car 
Shall  shine  from  far, 
And  make  and  mar 
The  foolish  fates." 

This  was  lofty ! — Now  name  the  rest  of  the  players. — This  is  Ercles' 
vein,  a  tyrant's  vein ;  a  lover  is  more  condoling. 

Quin.  Francis  Flute,  the  bellows-mender. 

Flu.  Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.  You  must  take  Thisby  on  you. 

Flu.  What  is  Thisby  ?  a  wandering  knight? 

Quin.  It  is  the  lady  that  Pyramus  must  love. 

Flu.  Nay,  faith,  let  me  not  play  a  woman ;  I  have  a  beard  coming. 

Quin.  That 's  all  one ;  you  shall  play  it  in  a  mask,  and  you  may 
speak  as  small  as  you  will. 

Bot.  An'  I  may  hide  my  face?  let  me  play  Thisby,  too;  I'll  speak 
in  a  monstrous  little  voice; — Thisne,  Thisne, — ah,  Pyramus,  my  lover 
dear  ;  thy  Thisby  dear  !  and  lady  dear  ! 

Quin.  No,  no ;  you  must  play  Pyramus,  and,  Flute,  you  Thisby. 

Bot.  Well,  proceed. 

Quin.  Robin  Starveling,  the  tailor. 

Star.  Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.  Robin  Starveling,  you  must  play  Thisby 's  mother. — Tom 
Snout,  the  tinker. 

Snout.  Here,  Peter  Quince. 

Quin.  You,  Pyramus'  father ;  myself,  Thisby's  father ;— Snug,  the 
joiner,  you,  the  lion's  part :— and,  I  hope,  here  is  a  play  fitted. 

Snug.  Have  you  the  lion's  part  written  ?  pray  you,  if  it  be,  give  it 
me,  for  I  am  slow  of  study. 

Quin.  You  may  do  it  extempore,  for  it  is  nothing  but  roaring. 


574  MANUAL   OF  ENGLTSH  LITERATURE. 

Bot.  Let  me  play  the  lion,  too:  I  will  roar,  that  I  will  do  any 
man's  heart  good  to  hear  me ;  I  will  roar,  that  I  will  make  the  duke 
say,  Let  him  roar  again,  Let  him  roar  again  ! 

Quin.  An'  you  should  do  it  too  terribly,  you  would  fright  the 
duchess  and  the  ladies,  that  they  would  shriek;  and  that  were 
enough  to  hang  us  all. 

All.  That  would  hang  us  every  mother's  son. 

Bot.  I  grant  you,  friends,  if  that  you  should  fright  the  ladies  out  of 
their  wits,  they  would  have  no  more  discretion  but  to  hang  us :  but 
I  will  aggravate  my  voice  so,  that  I  will  roar  you  as  gently  as  any 
sucking  dove ;  I  will  roar  you  an  't  were  any  nightingale. 

Quin.  You  can  play  no  part  but  Pyramus :  for  Pyramus  is  a  s\veet- 
faced  man ;  a  proper  man  as  one  shall  see  in  a  summer's  day ;  a  most 
lovely,  gentleman-like  man ;  therefore  you  must  needs  play  Pyramus. 

Bot.  Well,  I  will  undertake  it.  What  beard  were  I  best  to  play  it 
in? 

Quin.  Why,  what  you  will. 

Bot.  I  will  discharge  it  in  either  your  straw-colored  beard,  your 
orange-tawny  beard,  your  purple-in-grain  beard,  or  your  French- 
crown-color  beard,  your  perfect  yellow. 

Quin.  Some  of  your  French  crowns  have  no  hair  at  all,  and  then 
you  will  play  bare-faced. — But,  masters ;  here  are  your  parts :  and  I 
am  to  entreat  you,  request  you,  and  desire  you,  to  con  them  by  to- 
morrow night ;  and  meet  me  in  the  palace  wood,  a  mile  without  the 
town,  by  moonlight ;  there  will  we  rehearse :  for  if  we  meet  in  the 
city,  we  shall  be  dogg'd  with  company,  and  our  devices  known.  In 
the  meantime,  I  will  draw  a  bill  of  properties,  such  as  our  play  wants. 
I  pray  you  fail  me  not. 

Bot.  We  will  meet ;  and  there  we  may  rehearse  more  obscenely, 
and  courageously.  Take  pains ;  be  perfect ;  adieu ! 

Quin.  At  the  duke's  oak  we  meet. 

Bot.  Enough  ;  Hold,  or  cut  bow-strings.  \_Exeunt. 

ACT  III.— SCENE  I.— A  Wood. 
Enter  QUINCE,  SNUG,  BOTTOM,  FLUTE,  SNOUT,  and  STARVELING. 

Bot.  Are  we  all  met  ? 

Quin.  Pat,  pat ;  and  here 's  a  marvelous  convenient  place  for  our 
rehearsal :  this  green  plot  shall  be  our  stage,  this  hawthorn  brake 
our  tyring-house ;  and  we  will  do  it  in  action,  as  we  will  do  it  before 
the  duke. 

Bot.  Peter  Quince,  — 

Quin.  What  say'st  thou,  bully  Bottom  ? 

Bot.  There  are  things  in  this  comedy  of  Pyramus  and  Thisby  that 


SHA  KESPEARE.  57o 


will  never  please.  First,  Pyramus  must  draw  a  sword  to  kill  himself; 
which  the  ladies  cannot  abide.  How  answer  you  that  ? 

Snout.  By  'rlakin,*  a  parlous  fear. 

Star.  I  believe  we  must  leave  the  killing  out,  when  all  is  done. 

Bot.  Not  a  whit ;  I  have  a  device  to  make  all  well.  Write  me  a 
prologue  :  and  let  the  prologue  seem  to  say,  we  will  do  no  harm  with 
our  swords :  and  that  Pyramus  is  not  killed  indeed  :  and,  for  the  more 
better  assurance  tell  them,  that  I  Pyramus  am  not  Pyramus,  but 
Bottom  the  weaver :  this  will  put  them  out  of  fear. 

Quin.  Well,  we  will  have  such  a  prologue ;  and  it  shall  be  written 
in  eight  and  six. 

Bot.  No,  make  it  two  more ;  let  it  be  written  in  eight  and  eight. 

Snout.  Will  not  the  ladies  be  afeard  of  the  lion  ? 

Star.  I  fear  it,  I  promise  you. 

Bot.  Masters,  you  ought  to  consider  with  yourselves :  to  bring  in, 
God  shield  us !  a  lion  among  ladies,  is  a  most  dreadful  thing :  for 
there  is  not  a  more  fearful  wild-fowl  than  your  lion,  living ;  and  we 
ought  to  look  to  it. 

Snout.  Therefore,  another  prologue  must  tell  he  is  not  a  lion. 

Bot.  Nay,  you  must  name  his  name,  and  half  his  face  must  be  seen 
through  the  lion's  neck  ;  and  he  himself  must  speak  through,  saying 
thus,  or  to  the  same  defect, — Ladies,  or  fair  ladies,  I  would  wish  you, 
or,  I  would  request  you,  or,  I  would  entreat  you,. not  to  fear,  not  to 
tremble ;  my  life  for  yours.  If  you  think  I  come  hither  as  a  lion,  it 
were  pity  of  my  life  :  no,  I  am  no  such  thing ;  I  am  a  man  as  other 
men  are :  and  there,  indeed,  let  him  name  his  ixarne ;  and  tell  them 
plainly,  he  is  Snug  the  joiner. 

Quin.  Well,  it  shall  be  so.  But  there  is  two  hard  things ;  that  is, 
to  bring  the  moonlight  into  a  chamber :  for  you  know,  Pyramus  and 
Thisby  meet  by  moonlight. 

Snug.  Doth  the  moon  shine  that  night  we  play  our  play  ? 

Bot.  A  calendar,  a  calendar!  look  in  the  almanac;  find  out  moon- 
shine, find  out  moon-shine. 

Quin.  Yes,  it  doth  shine  that  night. 

Bot.  Why,  then,  you  may  leave  a  casement  of  the  great  chamber- 
window,  where  we  play,  open ;  and  the  moon  may  shine  in  at  the 
casement. 

Quin.  Ay ;  or  else  one  must  come  in  with  a  bush  of  thorns  and  a 
lantern,  and  say,  he  comes  to  disfigure,  or  to  present,  the  person  of 
moon-shine.  Then,  there  is  another  thing:  we  must  have  a  wall  in 
the  great  chamber ;  for  Pyramus  and  Thisby,  says  the  story,  did  talk 
through  the  chink  of  a  wall. 

*  By  our  ladykin,  or  little  lady. 


576  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Snug.  You  never  can  bring  in  a  wall. — What  say  you,  Bottom  ? 

Bot.  Some  man  or  other  must  present  wall :  and  let  him  have  some 
plaster,  or  some  lome,  or  some  rough-cast  about  him,  to  signify  wall ; 
or  let  him  hold  his  fingers  thus,  and  through  that  cranny  shall  Pyra- 
mus  and  Thisby  whisper. 

Quin.  If  that  may  be,  then. all  is  well.  Come,  sit  down,  every 
mother's  son,  and  rehearse  your  parts.  Pyramus,  you  begin :  when 
you  have  spoken  your  speech,  enter  into  that  brake ;  and  so  every 
one  according  to  his  cue. 

Enter  PUCK  behind. 

Puck.  What  hempen  home-spuns  have  we  swaggering  here, 
So  near  the  cradle  of  the  fairy  queen? 
What,  a  play  toward  ?    I  '11  be  an  auditor ; 
An  actor  too,  perhaps,  if  I  see  cause. 

Quin.  Speak,  Pyramus : — Thisby,  stand  forth. 

Pyr.  Thisby,  the  flowers  of  odious  savors  sweet, — 

Quin.  Odors,  odors. 

Pyr.  odors  savors  sweet  : 

So  doth  thy  breath,  my  dearest  Thisby  dear. — 

But,  hark,  a  voice!  stay  thou  but  here  a  while, 

And  by  and  by  I  will  to  thee  appear.  [Exit. 

Puck.  A  stranger  Pyramus  than  e'er  play'd  here !  [Exit. 

This.  Must  I  speak  now  ? 

Quin.  Ay,  marry,  must  you :  for  you  must  understand,  he  goes  but 
to  see  a  noise  that  he  heard,  and  is  to  come  again. 
This.  Most  radiant  Pyramus,  most  lily  white  of  hue, 

Of  color  like  the  red  rose  on  triumphant  briar, 
Most  brisky  Juvenal,  and  eke  most  lovely  Jew, 

As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet  would  never  tire, 
I'll  meet  thee,  Pyramus,  at  Ninny's  tomb. 

Quin.  Ninus'  tomb,  man :  why  you  must  not  speak  that  yet ;  that 
you  answer  to  Pyramus :  you  speak  all  your  part  at  once,  cues  and 
all. — Pyramus  enter ;  your  cue  is  past ;  it  is,  never  tire. 

Re-enter  PUCK  and  BOTTOM  with  an  ass's  head. 
This.  0, — As  true  as  truest  horse,  that  yet  would  never  tire. 
Pyr.  If  I  were  fair,  Thisby,  I  were  only  thine: — 

Quin.  0  monstrous!    O  strange!    we  are  haunted. 
Pray,  masters !   fly,  masters !   help.  [Exeunt  players. 

Puck.  I  '11  follow  you,  I  '11  lead  you  about  a  round, 
Through  bog,  through  bush,  through  brake,  through  brier ; 

Sometime  a  horse  I  '11  be,  sometime  a  hound, 
A  hog,  a  headless  bear,  sometime  a  fire ; 


SHAKESPEARE.  577 


And  neigh,  and  bark,  and  grunt,  and  roar,  and  burn, 

Like  horse,  hound,  hog,  bear,  fire,  at  every  turn.  [Exit. 

Bot.  Why  do  they  run  away  ?  this  is  a  knavery  of  them,  to 
make  me  afeard. 

Re-enter  SNOUT. 

Snout.  O  Bottom,  thou  art  changed !  what  do  I  see  on  thee ! 
Bot.  What  do  you  see?  you  see  an  ass's  head  of  your  own,  do 
you?  [Exit. 

Re-enter  QUJNCE. 

Quln.  Bless  thee,  Bottom !  bless  thee !  thou  art  translated.    [Exit. 

Bot.  I  see  their  knavery  :  this  is  to  make  an  ass  of  me ;  to  frighten 
me,  if  they  could.  But  I  will  not  stir  from  this  place,  do  what  they 
can :  I  will  walk  up  and  down  here,  and  I  will  sing,  that  they  shall 
hear  that  I  am  not  afraid.  [Sings. 

Our  remaining  extracts  will  illustrate  Shakespeare's  dramatic 
power  in  its  introspective  aspects,  and  in  its  more  intense  mani- 
festations. 

KING  RICHARD  III.— ACT  /.-SCENE  IV. 

A  Room  in  theTower. — Enter  CLARENCE  and  BRAKENBURY. 

Brak.  Why  looks  your  grace  so  heavily  to-day  ? 

Clar.  0, 1  have  pass'd  a  miserable  night, 
So  full  of  fearful  dreams,  of  ugly  sights, 
That,  as  I  am  a  Christian  faithful  man, 
I  would  not  spend  another  such  a  night, 
Though  'twere  to  buy  a  world  of  happier  days; 
So  full  of  dismal  terror  was  the  time. 

Brak.  What  was  your  dream,  my  lord  ?    I  pray  you  tell  me. 

Clar.  Methought,.  that  I  had  broken  from  the  Tower, 
And  was  embark'd  to  cross  to  Burgundy; 
And,  in  my  company,  my  brother  Gloster 
Who  from  my  cabin  tempted  me  to  walk 
Upon  the  hatches;  thence  we  look'd  toward  England, 
And  cited  up  a  thousand  heavy  times, 
During  the  wars  of  York  and  Lancaster 
That  had  befall'n  us.    As  we  pac'd  along 
Upon  the  giddy  footing  of  the  hatches, 
Methought  that  Gloster  stumbled ;  and,  in  falling, 
Struck  me,  that  thought  to  stay  him,  overboard, 
Into  the  tumbling  billows  of  the  main. 
O  Lord !  methought,  what  pain  it  was  to  drown ! 
What  dreadful  noise  of  water  in  mine  ears! 
What  sights  of  ugly  death  within  mine  eyes! 
Methought,  I  saw  a  thousand  fearful  wrecks ; 
A  thousand  men,  that  fishes  gnaw'd  upon ; 

49  2M 


578  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps  of  pearl, 

Inestimable  stones,  unvalued  jewels, 

All  scatter'd  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

Some  lay  in  dead  men's  skulls;  and,  in  those  holes 

Where  eyes  did  once  inhabit,  there  were  crept 

(As 'twere  in  scorn  of  eyes,)  reflecting  gems, 

That  woo'd  the  slimy  bottom  of  the  deep, 

And  mock'd  the  dead  bones  that  lay  scatter'd  by. 

Brak.  Had  you  such  leisure  in  the  time  of  death, 
To  gaze  upon  the  secrets  of  the  deep? 

Clar.  Methought,  I  had ;  and  often  did  I  strive 
To  yield  the  ghost ;  but  still  the  envious  flood 
Kept  in  my  soul,  and  would  not  let  it  forth 
To  seek  the  empty,  vast,  and  wand'ring  air ; 
But  smother'd  it  within  my  panting  bulk, 
Which  almost  burst  to  belch  it  in  the  sea. 

Brdk.  Awak'd  you  not  from  this  sore  agony? 

Clar.  O,  no ;  my  dream  was  lengthen'd  after  life ; 
0,  then  began  the  tempest  to  my  soul ! 
I  pass'd,  methought,  the  melancholy  flood, 
With  that  grim  ferryman,  which  poets  write  of, 
Unto  the  kingdom  of  perpetual  night. 
The  first  that  there  did  greet  my  stranger  soul, 
Was  my  great  father-in-law,  renowned  Warwick ; 
Who  cry'd  aloud,—  What  scourge  for  perjury 
Can  this  dark  monarchy  afford  false  Clarence  ? 
And  so  he  vanish'd.    Then  came  wand'ring  by 
A  shadow  like  an  angel,  with  bright  hair 
Dabbled  in  blood ;  and  he  shriek'd  out  aloud, — 
Clarence  is  come,  false,  fleeting,  perjur'd  Clarence - 
Tliat  stabUd  me  in  the  field  at  Tewksbury  ;— 
Seize  on  him,  furies,  take  him  to  your  torments  ! — 
With  that,  methought,  a  legion  of  foul  fiends 
Environ'd  me,  and  howled  in  mine  e'ars 
Such  hideous  cries,  that,  with  the  very  noise, 
I  trembling  wak'd,  and,  for  a  season  after, 
Could  not  believe  but  that  I  was  in  hell  ; 
Such  terrible  impression  made  my  dream. 

Brak.  No  marvel,  lord,  though  it  affrighted  you ; 
I  am  afraid,  methinks,  to  hear  you  tell  it. 

Clar.  O,  Brakenbury,  I  have  done  these  things, — 
That  now  give  evidence  against  my  soul, — 
For  Edward's  sake;  and,  see,  how  he  requites  me! — 
O  God!  if  my  deep  prayers  cannot  appease  thee, 
But  thou  wilt  be  aveng'd  on  my  misdeeds, 


SHAKESPEARE.  579 

Yet  execute  thy  wrath  on  me  alone : 
0,  spare  my  guiltless  wife,  and  my  poor  children ! — 
I  pray  thee,  gentle  keeper,  stay  by  me ; 
My  soul  is  heavy,  and  I  fain  would  sleep. 
Brak.  I  will,  my  lord ;   God  give  your  grace  good  rest ! 

[Clarence  reposes  himself  on  a  chair. 
Sorrow  breaks  seasons,  and  reposing  hours, 
Makes  the  night  morning,  and  the  noontide  night. 
Princes  have  but  their  titles  for  their  glories, 
An  outward  honor  for  an  inward  toil ; 
And,  for  unfelt  imaginations, 
They  often  feel  a  world  of  restless  cares; 
So  that,  between  their  titles,  and  low  name, 
There  's  nothing  differs  but  the  outward  fame. 

Enter  two  Murderers. 
1  Nurd.  Ho !  who  's  here  ? 
Brak.  What  would'st  thou,  fellow?  and  how  cam'st  thou  hither? 

1  Murd.  I  would  speak  with  Clarence,  and  I  came  hither  on  my 
legs. 

Brak.  What,  so  brief? 

2  Murd.  O,  sir,  't  is  better  to  be  brief  than  tedious : — 

Let  him  see  our  commission;  talk  no  more. 

[A  paper  is  delivered  to  Brakenbury,  who  reads  it. 
Brak.  I  am,  in  this,  commanded  to  deliver 
The  noble  duke  of  Clarence  to  your  hands: — 
I  will  not  reason  what  is  meant  hereby, 
Because  I  will  be  guiltless  of  the  meaning. 
Here  are  the  keys; — there  sits  the  duke  asleep: 
I  '11  to  the  king ;  and  signify  to  him, 
That  thus  I  have  resign'd  to  you 'my  charge. 

1  Murd   You  may,  sir ;  't  is  a  point  of  wisdom  : 

Fare  you  well.  [Exit  Brakenbury. 

2  Murd.  What,  shall  we  stab  him  as  he  sleeps? 

1  Murd.  No ;  he  '11  say,  't  was  done  cowardly,  when  he  wakes. 

2  Murd.  When  he  wakes !  why,  fool,  he  shall  never  wake  until  the 
great  judgment  day. 

1  Murd.  Why,  then  he  '11  say,  we  stabb'd  him  sleeping. 

2  Murd.  The  urging  of  that  word  judgment,  hath  bred  a  kind  of 
remorse  in  me. 

1  Murd.  What!  art  thou  afraid? 

2  Murd.  Not  to  kill  him,  having  a  warrant  for  it ;  but  to  be  damn'd 
for  killing  him,  from  the  which  no  warrant  can  defend  me. 

1  Murd.  I  thought,  thou  hadst  been  resolute. 


580  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

2  Murd.  So  I  am,  to  let  him  live. 

1  Murd.  I  '11  back  to  the  duke  of  Gloster,  and  tell  him  so. 

2  Murd.  Nay,  I  pr'ythee,  stay  a  little :  I  hope  this  holy  humor  of 
mine  will  change ;  it  was  wont  to  hold  me  but  while  one  would  tell 
twenty. 

1  Murd.  How  dost  thou  feel  thyself  now  ? 

2  Murd.  'Faith,  some  certain  dregs  of  conscience  are  yet  within  me. 

1  Murd.  Eemember  our  reward,  when  the  deed  's  done. 

2  Murd.  Come,  he  dies ;  I  had  forgot  the  reward. 

1  Murd.  Where  's  thy  conscience  now  ? 

2  Murd.  In  the  duke  of  Gloster's  purse. 

1  Murd.  So,  when  he  opens  his  purse  to  give  us  our  reward,  thy 
conscience  flies  out. 

2  Murd.  'T  is  no  matter ;  let  it  go ;  there  's  few,  or  none,  will  enter- 
tain it. 

1  Murd.  What  if  it  come  to  thee  again  ? 

2  Murd.  I  '11  not  meddle  with  it,  it  is  a  dangerous  thing,  it  makes  a 
man  a  coward ;  a  man  cannot  swear,  but  it  checks  him.    'T  is  a  blush- 
ing shame-faced  spirit,  that  mutinies  in  a  man's  bosom ;  it  fills  one 
full  of  obstacles :  it  made  me  once  restore  a  purse  of  gold,  that  by 
chance  I  found ;  it  beggars  any  man  that  keeps  it :  it  is  turned  out 
of  all  towns  and  cities  for  a  dangerous  thing ;  and  every  man,  that 
means  to  live  well,  endeavors  to  trust  to  himself,  and  live  without  it. 

1  Murd.  Zounds,  it  is  even  now  at  my  elbow,  persuading  me  not  to 
kill  the  duke. 

2  Murd.  Take  the  devil  in  thy  mind,  and  believe  him  not :   he 
would  insinuate  with  thee,  but  to  make  thee  sigh. 

1  Murd.  I  am  strong-fram'd,  he  cannot  prevail  with  me. 

2  Murd.  Spoke  like  a  tall  fellow,  that  respects  his  reputation.  Come, 
shall  we  fall  to  work  ? 

1  Murd.  Take  him  over  the  costard  with  the  hilts  of  thy  sword,  and 
then  throw  him  into  the  malmsey-butt,  in  the  next  room. 

2  Murd.  0,  excellent  device !  and  make  a  sop  of  him. 

1  Murd.  Soft !  he  wakes. 

2  Murd.  Strike. 

1  Murd.  No,  we  '11  reason  with  him. 

Clar.  Where  art  thou,  keeper  ?  give  me  a  cup  of  wine. 

1  Murd.  You  shall  have  wine  enough,  my  lord,  anon. 

Clar.  In  God's  name,  what  art  thou  ? 

1  Murd.  A  man,  as  you  are. 

Clar.  But  not,  as  I  am,  royal. 

1  Murd.  Nor  you,  as  we  are,  loyal. 


SHAKESPEARE.  581 

Clar.  Thy  voice  is  thunder,  but  thy  looks  are  humble. 

1  Murd.  My  voice  is  now  the  king's,  my  looks  mine  own. 

Clar.  How  darkly,  and  how  deadly  dost  thou  speak ! 
Your  eyes  do  menace  me :  Why  look  you  pale  ? 
Who  sent  you  hither  ?  wherefore  do  you  come  ? 

Both  Murd.  To,  to,  to, 

Clar.  To  murder  me  ? 

Both  Murd.  Ay,  ay. 

Clar.  You  scarcely  have  the  hearts  to  tell  me  so, 
And  therefore  cannot  have  the  hearts  to  do  it. 
Wherein,  my  friends,  have  I  offended  you  ? 

1  Murd.  Offended  us  you  have  not,  but  the  king. 
Clar.  I  shall  be  reconcil'd  to  him  again. 

2  Murd.  Never,  my  lord ;  therefore  prepare  to  die. 
Clar.  Are  you  call'd  forth  from  out  a  world  of  men 

To  slay  the  innocent  ?    What  is  my  offense  ? 
Where  is  the  evidence  that  doth  accuse  me  ? 
What  lawful  quest  hath  given  their  verdict  up 
Unto  the  frowning  judge  ?  or  who  pronounc'd 
The  bitter  sentence  of  poor  Clarence'  death  ? 
Before  I  be  convict  by  course  of  law, 
To  threaten  me  with  death  is  most  unlawful. 
I  charge  you,  as  you  hope  to  have  redemption, 
By  Christ's  dear  blood  shed  for  our  grievous  sins, 
That  you  depart,  and  lay  no  hands  on  me ; 
The  deed  you  undertake  is  damnable. 

1  Murd.  What  we  will  do,  we  do  upon  command. 

2  Murd.  And  he  that  hath  commanded,  is  our  king. 
Clar.  Erroneous  vassal !  the  great  King  of  kings 

Hath  in  the  table  of  his  law  commanded, 
That  thou  shalt  do  no  murder.    Wilt  thou  then 
Spurn  at  his  edict,  and  fulfil  a  man's? 
Take  heed;  for  he  holds  vengeance  in  his  hand, 
To  hurl  upon  their  heads  that  break  his  law. 

2  Murd.  And  that  same  vengeance  doth  he  hurl  on  thee, 
For  false  forswearing,  and  for  murder  too : 
Thou  didst  receive  the  sacrament  to  fight 
In  quarrel  of  the  house  of  Lancaster. 

1  Murd.  And,  like  a  traitor  to  the  name  of  God, 
Didst  break  that  vow ;  and,  with  thy  treacherous  blade, 
Unrip'dst  the  bowels  of  thy  sovereign's  son. 

2  Murd.  Whom  thou  wast  sworn  to  cherish  and  defend. 
1  Murd.  How  canst  thou  urge  God's  dreadful  law  to  us, 

When  thou  hast  broke  it  in  such  dear  decree? 
49* 


582  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Clar.  Alas!  for  whose  sake  did  I  that  ill  deed? 
For  Edward,  for  my  brother,  for  his  sake  : 
He  sends  you  not  to  murder  me  for  this: 
For  in  that  sin  he. is  as  deep  as  I. 
If  God  will  be  avenged  for  the  deed, 
O,  know  you,  that  he  doth  it  publicly ; 
Take  not  the  quarrel  from  his  powerful  arm; 
He  needs  no  indirect  nor  lawless  course, 
To  cut  off  those  that  have  offended  him. 

1  Murd.  Who  made  thee  then  a  bloody  minister, 
When  gallant-springing,  brave  Plantagenet, 
That  princely  novice,  was  struck  dead  by  thee  ? 

Clar.  My  brother's  love,  the  devil,  and  my  rage. 

1  Murd.  Thy  brother's  love,  our  duty,  and  thy  fault, 
Provoke  us  hither  now  to  slaughter  thee. 

Clar.  If  you  do  love  my  brother,  hate  not  me ; 
I  am  his  brother,  and  I  love  him  well. 
If  you  are  hir'd  for  meed,  go  back  again, 
And  I  will  send  you  to  my  brother  Gloster ; 
Who  shall  reward  you  better  for  my  life, 
Than  Edward  will  for  tidings  of  my  death. 

2  Murd.  You  are  deceiv'd,  your  brother  Gloster  hates  you. 
Clar.  O,"no;  he  loves  me,  and  he  holds  me  dear. 

Go  you  to  him  for  me. 

Both  Murd.  Ay,  so  we  will. 

Clar.  Tell  him,  when  that  our  princely  father  York 
Bless'd  his  three  sons  with  his  victorious  arm, 
And  charg'd  us  from  his  soul  to  love  each  other, 
He  little  thought  of  this  divided  friendship: 
Bid  Gloster  think  on  this,  and  he  will  weep. 

1  Murd.  Ay,  mill-stones ;  as  he  lesson'd  us  to  weep. 

Clar.  O,  do  not  slander  him,  for  he  is  kind. 

1  Murd.  Right,  as  snow  in  harvest. — Come,  you  deceive  yourself: 
'T  is  he  that  sends  us  to  destroy  you  here. 

Clar.  It  cannot  be ;  for  he  bewept  my  fortune, 
And  hugg'd  me  in  his  arms,  and  swore,  with  sobs, 
That  he  would  labor  my  delivery. 

1  Murd.  Why,  so  he  doth,  when  he  delivers  you 
From  this  earth's  thraldom  to  the  joys  of  heaven. 

2  Murd.  Make  peace  with  God,  for  you  must  die,  my  lord. 
Clar.  Hast  thou  that  holy  feeling  in  thy  soul, 

To  counsel  me  to  make  my  peace  with  God, 

And  art  thou  yet  to  thy  own  soul  so  blind, 

That  thou  wilt  war  with  God,  by  murdering  me? — 


SHAKESPEARE.  583 


Ah,  sirs,  consider,  he  that  set  you  on 

To  do  this  deed,  will  hate  you  for  the  deed. 

2  Murd.  What  shall  we  do  ? 

Clar.  Relent,  and  save  your  souls. 

1  Murd.  Relent !   't  is  cowardly  and  womanish. 
Clar.  Not  to  relent,  is  beastly,  savage,  devilish. — 

Which  of  you,  if  you  were  a  prince's  son, 

Being  pent  from  liberty,  as  I  am  now, — 

If  two  such  murderers  as  yourselves  came  to  you, — 

Would  not  entreat  for  life? 

My  friend,  I  spy  some  pity  in  thy  looks ; 

O,  if  thine  eye  be  not  a  flatterer, 

Come  thou  on  my  side,  and  entreat  for  me, 

As  you  would  beg,  were  you  in  my  distress. 

A  begging  prince,  what  beggar  pities  not? 

2  Murd.  Look  behind  you,  my  lord. 

1  Murd.  Take  that,  and  that ;  if  all  this  will  not  do,  [Stabs  him. 
I  '11  drown  you  in  the  malmsey-butt  within.         [Exit,  with  body. 

2  Murd.  A  bloody  deed,  and  desperately  despatch'd ! 
How  fain,  like  Pilate,  would  I  wash  my  hands 

Of  this  most  grievous  guilty  murder  done  ! 

MACBETH. 

ACT  T7.— SCENE  V.— Dunsinane.-—  Within  the  Castle. 
Enter,  with  drums  and  colors,  MACBETH,  SEYTON,  and  Soldiers. 

Macb.  Hang  out  our  banners  on  the  outward  walls ; 
The  cry  is  still,  They  come :  Our  castle's  strength 
Will  laugh  a  siege  to  scorn:   here  let  them  lie, 
Till  famine,  and  the  ague,  eat  them  up ; 
Were  they  not  forc'd  with  those  that  should  be  ours, 
We  might  have  met  them  dareful,  beard  to  beard, 
And  beat  them  backward  home.    What  is  that  noise? 

[A  cry  within,  of  women. 

Sey.  It  is  the  cry  of  women,  my  good  lord. 

Macb.  I  have  almost  forgot  the  taste  of  fears: 
The  time  has  been,  my  senses  would  have  cool'd 
To  hear  a  night-shriek ;  and  my  fell  of  hair 
Would  at  a  dismal  treatise  rouse,  and  stir 
As  life  were  in 't :   I  have  supp'd  full  with  horrors, 
Direness,  familiar  to  my  slaught'rous  thoughts, 
Cannot  once  start  me.— Wherefor  was  that  cry  ? 

Sey.  The  queen,  my  lord,  is  dead. 

Macb.  She  should  have  died  hereafter; 
There  would  have  been  a  time  for  such  a  word. — 


584  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow 

Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day, 

To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time; 

And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 

The  way  to  dusty  death.     Out,  out,  brief  candle ! 

Life 's  but  a  walking  shadow ;  a  poor  player, 

That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 

And  then  is  heard  no  more:  it  is  a  tale 

Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 

Signifying  nothing.  [Enter  a  Messenger. 

Thou  com'st  to  use  thy  tongue  :   thy  story  quickly. 

Mess.  Gracious,  my  lord, 
I  shall  report  that  which  I  say  I  saw, 
But  know  not  how  to  do  it. 

Macb.  Well,  say,  sir. 

Mess.  As  I  did  stand  my  watch  upon  the  hill, 
I  look'd  toward  Birnam,  and  anon,  methought, 
The  wood  began  to  move. 

Macb.  Liar,  and  slave !  [Striking  him. 

Mess.  Let  me  endure  your  wrath,  if 't  be  not  so ; 
Within  this  three  mile  may  you  see  it  coming; 
I  say,  a  moving  grove. 

Macb.  If  thou  speak'st  false, 

Upon  the  next  tree  shalt  thou  hang  alive, 
Till  famine  cling  thee:  if  thy  speech  be  sooth, 
I  care  not  if  thou  dost  for  me  as  much. 
I  pull  in  resolution;  and  begin 
To  doubt  the  equivocation  of  the  fiend, 
That  lies  like  truth :   Fear  not,  till  Birnam  wood 
Do  come  to  Dunsinane ; — and  now  a  wood 
Comes  toward  Dunsinane. — Arm,  arm,  and  out ! — 
If  this,  which  he  avouches,  does  appear, 
There  is  nor  flying  hence,  nor  tarrying  here. 
I  'gin  to  be  a-weary  of  the  sun, 

And  wish  the  estate  o'  the  world  were  now  undone. — 
Ring  the  alarum  bell : — Blow  wind !   come,  wrack  ! 
At  least  we  '11  die  with  harness  on  our  back.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII.— A  Plain  before  the  Castle. 

Enter  MACBETH. 

Macb.  They  have  tied  me  to  a  stake ;  I  cannot  fly, 
But,  bear  like,  I  must  fight  the  course. — What 's  he, 
That  was  not  born  of  woman  ?    Such  a  one 
Am  I  to  fear,  or  none. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


585 


Enter  young  SIWARD. 
Siw.  What  is  thy  name  ? 
Macb.  Thou 'It  be  afraid  to  hear  it. 

Siw.  No ;  though  thou  call'st  thyself  a  hotter  name 
Than  any  is  in  hell. 
Macb.  My  name 's  Macbeth. 

Siw.  The  devil  himself  could  not  pronounce  a  title 
More  hateful  to  mine  ear. 

Macb.  No,  nor  more  fearful. 

Siw.  Thou  liest,  abhorred  tyrant;  with  my  sword 
I'll  prove  the  lie  thou  speak'st. 

[They  fight,  and  young  SIWARD  is  slain. 

Macb.  Thou  wast  born  of  woman. — 

But  swords  I  smile  at,  weapons  laugh  to  scorn, 
Brandish'd  by  man  that 's  of  a  woman  born.  [Exit. 

Alarums.    Enttr  MACDUFF. 

Macd.  That  way  the  noise  is :   Tyrant,  show  thy  face : 
If  thou  be'st  slain,  and  with  no  stroke  of  mine, 
My  wife  and  childrens'  ghosts  will  haunt  me  still. 
I  cannot  strike  at  wretched  kernes,  whose  arms 
Are  hir'd  to  bear  their  staves;   either  thou,  Macbeth, 
Or  else  my  sword,  with  an  unbatter'd  edge, 
I  sheathe  again  undeeded..    There  thou  should'st  be : 
By  this  great  clatter,  one  of  greatest  note 
Seems  bruited.    Let  me  find  him,  fortune ! 

And  more  I  beg  not.  [Ex-it.     Alarum. 

Re-enter  MACBETH. 

Macb.  Why  should  I  play  the  Roman  fool,  and  die 
On  mine  own  sword?  whiles  I  see  lives,  the  gashes 
Do  better  upon  them. 

Re-enter  MACDUFF. 

Macd.  Turn,  hell-hound,  turn. 

Macb.  Of  all  men  else  I  have  avoided  thee: 
But  get  thee  back,  my  soul  is  too  much  charg'd 
With  blood  of  thine  already. 

Macd.  I  have  no  words, 

My  voice  is  in  my  sword ;  thou  bloodier  villain 
Than  terms  can  give  thee  out!  [They  fight. 

Macb.  Thou  losest  labor : 

As  easy  may'st  thou  the  intrenchant  air 
With  thy  keen  sword  impress,  as  make  me  bleed : 
Let  fall  thv  blade  on  vulnerable  Crests : 


586  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

I  bear  a  charmed  life  which  must  not  yield 
To  one  of  woman  born. 

Macd.  Despair  thy  charm  ; 

And  let  the  angel,  whom,  thou  still  hast  serv'd, 
Tell  thee,  Macduff  was  from  his  mother's  womb 
Untimely  ripp'd. 

Macb.  Accursed  be  that  tongue  that  tells  me  so,' 
For  it  hath  cow'd  my  better  part  of  man ! 
And  be  these  juggling  fiends  no  more  belie v'd, 
That  palter  with  us  in  a  double  sense ; 
That  keep  the  word  of  promise  to  our  ear, 
And  break  it  to  our  hope. — I  '11  not  fight  with  thee. 

Macd.  Then  yield  thee,  coward, 

And  live  to  be  the  show  and  gaze  o'  the  time. 
We  '11  have  thee,  as  our  rarer  monsters  are, 
Painted  upon  a  pole;  and  underwrit, 
Here  may  you  see  the  tyrant. 

Macb.  I  '11  not  yield, 

To  kiss  the  ground  before  young  Malcolm's  feet, 
And  to  be  baited  with  the  rabble's  curse. 
Though  Birnam  wood  be  come  to  Dunsinane, 
And  thou  oppos'd,  being  of  no  woman  born, 
Yet  I  will  try  the  last :   Before  my  body 
I  throw  my  warlike  shield :   lay  on,  Macduff ; 
And  damn'd  be  him  that  first  cries,  Hold,  enough. 

[Exeunt,  fighting.    MACBETH  is  slain  and  beheaded. 

There  are  several  respects  in  which  Shakespeare  transcends  all 
other  dramatists  and  poets.  He  is  more  comprehensive.  It  is 
quite  unsatisfactory  to  attempt  to  classify  his  plays,  as  the  plays  of 
most  writers  may  be  classified,  into  the  formal  groups  of  dramas, 
tragedies,  and  comedies ;  for  almost  every  one  embodies  the  essen- 
tial elements  of  all  three — or  at  least  two — of  these  different  types 
of  composition.  And  what  is  true  of  his  plays  is  equally  true 
of  their  different  characters,  particularly  their  leading  characters. 
His  men  and  women  are  as  we  find  them  in  actual  life — whole, 
complex  creatures.  True,  some  one  trait  of  each  is  always  seized 
upon  and  wrought  into  startling  prominence ;  but  the  individual 
is  not  therefore  distorted  into  a  mere  personification  of  that  trait. 
The  other  lesser  attributes  are  kept  constantly  in  view,  and 
afforded  fair  play. 

Shakespeare  is  more  intense.  His  creations  do  not  talk  about 
themselves,  but  they  themselves  speak.  In  them  we,  like  as  did 
their  author,  live  and  move  and  have  our  being.  They  transport 


SHAKESPEARE.  587 


us  with  frenzy,  or  melt  us  with  pity ;  they  provoke  our  extremest 
abhorrence,  or  compel  our  tenderest  love. 

Shakespeare  is  more  introspective.  For  us  he  has  not  only 
exhibited  the  world  as  a  stage  and  on  it  all  men  as  actors,  but  he 
shows  us  the  spectacle  from  behind  the  scenes  and  in  the  privacy 
of  the  green-room.  We  are  taken  into  the  very  minds  and  hearts 
of  his  characters,  and  experience  with  them  the  qualms  of  con- 
science, the  struggles  of  conflicting  interests,  and  the  pricks  of 
inexorable  duty,  that  precede  all  weighty  actions. 

Shakespeare  is  at  once  real — as  unblushingly  so  as  Chaucer — 
and  ideal — as  airily  and  fantastically  so  as  Spenser.  And  whether 
it  be  the  delineation  of  a  Richard  III.  or  an  Oberon,  of  a  murderer 
or  a  witch,  of  a  Falstaff  or  a  Puck,  he  is  sternly  loyal  to  the 
demands  of  the  realest  art, — the  Titanic  strength  of  his  imagina- 
tion sufficing  for  the  production  of  his  fictitious  creations  quite  as 
completely  as  did  his  open-eyed  observation  and  generous  expe- 
rience for  the  composition  of  his  real  ones. 

His  style,  compared  even  with  that  of  his  contemporaries,  is 
involved  and  complex.  This  comes  of  his  ungovernable  passion 
for  metaphor.  At  his  touch  the  ghostly  abstract  assumes  the 
fleshly  concrete,  and  the  vaguely  general  the  tangible  particular. 
Ideas  become  materialized  and  fancies  embodied ;  and  the  pro- 
cession of  fervid,  lusty  figures  is  so  constant,  so  rapid,  so  tumultu- 
ous, so  varied,  that  we  often  fail  readily  and  surely  to  recognize  the 
main,  the  royal  idea,  in  the  midst  of  this  carnival  of  imagery. 


FRANCIS    BACON. 


FRANCIS  BACON,  the  youngest  son  of  Sir  Nicholas  Bacon, 
Keeper  of  the  Great  Seal  during  the  first  twenty  years  of  Eliz- 
abeth's reign,  was  born  at  York  House,  London,  January  22, 
1561.  His  health  was  delicate,  and  partly,  at  least,  on  this 
account  he  was  led  to  substitute  for  the  customary  pastimes  of 
a  boy  the  sedentary  occupations  of  the  mature  student  and 
thinker.  His  precocity  and  the  natural  but  uncommon  dignity 
of  his  demeanor  readily  attracted  the  attention  of  the  Queen, 
who  playfully  styled  him  her  young  Lord  Keeper. 

At  thirteen,  young  Bacon  entered  Trinity  College,  Cambridge, 
which  he  left  three  years  later,  not  a  little  disgusted  with  the 
stale  and  unprofitable  system  of  academic  education  then  pur- 
sued. Immediately  he  was  sent  to  France,  in  care  of  Sir  Amias 
Paulet,  the  English  ambassador.  Whilst  here,  for  several  years, 
in  the  midst  of  the  blandishments  and  seductions  of  the  French 
capital,  he  heroically  gave  himself  up  to  the  study  of  statistics 
and  diplomacy,  and  was  habitually  found  in  the  society  of 
statesmen,  philosophers,  and  men  of  letters.  But  these  con- 
genial employments  were  suddenly  terminated  in  1579  by  the 
death  of  his  father,  which  rendered  it  necessary  for  him  to 
return  home,  and,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  to  think  how  to  live, 
instead  of  living  only  to  think." 

As  a  step  to  this  end,  he  adopted  the  profession  of  the  law, 
and  for  the  next  six  years  turned  his  extraordinary  abilities  to 
its  mastery.  This  much  by  way  of  self-help  having  been  done, 
he  hoped,  through  the  influence  of  Lord  Burleigh,  the  Prime 
Minister,  who  was  his  uncle,  joined  to  the  remembrance  of  his 
father's  long  and  eminent  services,  and  favored  by  the  Queen's 
good  opinion  of  his  abilities,  to  obtain  a  provision  such  as  would 
enable  him  to  turn  his  attention  exclusively  to  the  prosecution 
of  his  favorite  philosophical  and  literary  schemes.  But  in  this 
he  was  destined  to  repeated  disappointments.  He  was,  how- 

588 


BACON.  589 


ever,  elected  to  the  House  of  Commons  in  1585,  and  returned 
to  that  body  in  1592 ;  and  during  these  terms  he  achieved  a 
splendid  reputation  for  statesmanship  and  oratory. 

Twelve  years  of  almost  servile  patience  having  satisfied  Bacon 
that  he  might  expect  no  favors  from  the  patronage  of  Burleigh, 
he  turned — drawn  by  his  generous  instincts — to  that  Lord's 
great  rival,  the  young  Earl  of  Essex.  This  royal  favorite  at 
once  exerted  himself  to  his  utmost  to  procure  for  Bacon,  first, 
the  office  of  Attorney-General,  and  then  that  of  Solicitor-Gen- 
eral; and  when  he  failed  in  both,  determined,  as  it  would 
seem,  to  render  his  influence  of  some  material  account,  he  pre- 
sented Bacon  with  an  estate  worth  about  £1800. 

These  services,  however,  may  not  appear  to  be  either  so  con- 
siderable or  so  disinterested,  when  we  remember  that  in  return 
for  them  Bacon  proved,  for  ten  years,  the  truest  and  wisest 
counsellor  the  Earl  had,  and  that  more  than  once  he  had  inter- 
posed himself  as  a  peacemaker  between  the  impetuous  hero  at 
Essex  House  and  the  haughty  sovereign  at  Whitehall.  But 
thesa  intimate  relations  were  cut  off  by  the  Earl's  conspiracy 
against  the  Queen  in  1601. 

Bacon  has  been  both  immoderately  censured  and  commended 
for  his  conduct  in  appearing  against  Essex,  his  recent  friend 
and  benefactor,  at  the  trial  for  treason  which  ensued.  The 
facts  are,  however,  that  Bacon,  as  the  Queen's  Council  Learned 
in  the  Law, — to  which  preferment  he  had  succeeded  in  1595, — 
and  as  one  summoned  by  the  Privy  Council,  was  bound  in  duty 
to  appear  in  the  defense  of  his  sovereign  and  for  the  prosecution 
of  her  enemies,  whoever  they  might  be,  and  as  a  patriot  he  was 
also  bound  to  raise  his  hand  against  every  enemy  of  the  realm, 
however  intimate  his  former  relations  with  such  might  have 
been. 

Upon  the  accession  of  James  I.  to  the  throne,  Bacon,  by  hard 
work  and  not  a  little  sycophancy,  gradually  procured  the  recog- 
nitions of  his  ability,  which  had  been  denied  him  under  Eliza- 
beth;  for  we  find  him,  in  1607,  Solicitor-General;  in  1613, 
Attorney-General;  in  1616,  Privy  Counsellor;  in  1617,  Lord 
Keeper ;  in  1618,  Lord  Chancellor  and  Baron  Verulam ;  and  in 
1621,  Viscount  St.  Albans. 

Rapid  and  splendid  as  was  his  rise  after  it  had  fairly  begun, 
50 


590  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

his  fall  was  much  more  rapid  and  striking.  Following  the  cor- 
rupt but  very  general  practice  of  the  times,  Bacon,  during  his 
Chancellorship,  received  presents  from  suitors  in  his  court, — 
presents  from  both  parties,  and  then  decided  their  claims  upon 
their  legal  merits.  For  this  conduct  he  was  arraigned,  in  1621, 
by  Parliament,  impeached  for  corruption  in  his  high  office,  sen- 
tenced to  pay  a  fine  of  £40,000,  to  be  imprisoned  in  the  Tower 
during  the  royal  pleasure,  declared  incapable  of  ever  holding 
any  public  office,  and  forbidden  to  sit  in  Parliament  or  corne 
within  the  verge  of  the  Court.  The  sentence  was  hardly  pro- 
nounced before  it  was  mitigated.  His  imprisonment  lasted  for 
only  two  days ;  his  fine  was  remitted ;  and  he  was  restored  to 
the  privilege  of  appearing  at  Court  and  sitting  in  Parliament. 
Of  these  two  latter  privileges,  however,  he  took  no  advantage, 
but  devoted  the  remaining  five  years  of  his  life  exclusively  to 
literary  and  scientific  labors.  He  died  on  the  9th  of  April, 
1626. 

Such  was  the  superficial,  the  bread-and-rneat,  so  to  speak,  life 
of  Lord  Bacon.  His  real  life  is  met  with  only  at  intervals  and 
in  fragments  as  we  see  him,  temporarily  escaped  from  the  sor- 
did and  vexatious  concerns  of  the  Temple,  Parliament,  and  the 
Court,  and  seated  in  the  midst  of  his  books  and  apparatuses  in 
the  lovely  solitudes  of  Twickenham  and  Gorhambury.  At  such 
intervals  it  was  that  Bacon,  the  scholar,  the  thinker,  the 
romancer,  the  philosopher,  and  the  moralist,  discovered  his 
genuine  self; — a  genius,  in  whose  transcendant  presence  the 
Lord  Chancellor  and  Viscount  St.  Albans  must  be  wholly  for- 
gotten. 

The  achievements  of  this,  Bacon's  real  and  noble  life,  were 
his  Essays,  first  published  in  1597,  but  enlarged  in  1598,  1612, 
and  1625 ;  the  Treatise  on  the  Advancement  of  Learning, — 
which  was  afterwards  (in  1623)  expanded  into  the  De  Augmentis 
Scientiarium, — published  in  1605  ;  the  Wisdom  of  the  Ancients, 
in  1609,  and  the  Novum  Organum,  in  1620 ;  together  with  the 
uncompleted  works  of  the  last  two  or  three  years  of  his  life, — 
A  Digest  of  the  Laws  of  England,  A  History  of  England  under 
the  Princes  of  the  House  of  Tudor,  a  Natural  History,  a  Philo- 
sophical Romance — The  New  Atlantis,  and  a  History  of  Life  and 
Death. 


BACON.  591 

We  invite  the  student's  attention  first  to  a  description  of 
"  Solomon's  House,"  excerpted  from  New  Atlantis.  In  it  Bacon 
would  describe  a  model  college,  instituted  for  the  interpreta- 
tion of  natural  phenomena,  and  for  the  production  of  great 
benefits  for  mankind. 

The  preparations  and  instruments  are  there.  We  have  large  and  deep 
caves  of  several  depths ;  the  deepest  are  sunk  six  hundred  i'athoms ;  and 
some  of  them  are  digged  and  made  under  great  hills  and  mountains ;  so 
that  if  you  reckon  together  the  depth  of  the  hill,  and  the  depth  of  the 
cave,  they  are,  some  of  them,  above  three  miles  deep.  These  caves  we 
call  the  lower  regions.  And  we  use  them  for  all  coagulations,  indurations, 
refrigerations,  and  conservations  of  bodies.  "We  use  them  likewise  for  the 
imitation  of  natural  mines :  and  the  producing  also  of  new  artificial  metals, 
by  composition  and  materials  which  we  use  and  lay  there  for  many  years. 
We  use  them  also  sometimes,  which  may  seem  strange,  for  curing  of  some 
diseases,  and  for  prolongation  of  life,  in  some  hermits  that  choose  to  live 
there,  well  accommodated  of  all  things  necessary,  and  indeed  live  very 
long ;  by  whom  also  we  learn  many  things.  .  .  . 

We  have  high  towers,  the  highest  about  half  a  mile  in  height ;  and 
some  of  them  likewise  set  upon  high  mountains ;  so  that  the  vantage  of 
the  hill  with  the  tower,  is  in  the  highest  of  them  three  miles  at  least. 
And  these  places  we  call  the  upper  region  :  accounting  the  air  between  the 
high  places  and  the  low  as  a  middle  region.  We  use  these  towers  accord- 
ing to  their  several  heights  and  situations,  for  isolation,  refrigeration,  con- 
servation, and  for  the  view  of  divers  meteors ;  as  winds,  rain,  snow,  hail, 
and  some  of  the  fiery  meteors  also.  And  upon  them,  in  some  places,  are 
dwellings  of  hermits,  whom  we  visit  sometimes,  and  instruct  what  to 
observe.  .  .  . 

We  have  also  a  number  of  artificial  wells  and  fountains,  made  in  imita- 
tion of  the  natural  sources  and  baths :  as  tincted  upon  vitriol,  sulphur, 
steel,  brass,  lead,  nitre  and  other  minerals.  And  again,  we  have  little 
wells  for  infusions  of  many  things,  where  the  waters  take  the  virtue 
quicker  and  better  than  in  vessels  or  basins.  And  amongst  them  we  have 
a  water  which  we  call  water  of  paradise,  being,  by  that  we  do  to  it,  made 
very  sovereign  for  health  and  prolongation  of  life.  .  .  . 

We  have  also  large  and  various  orchards  and  gardens,  wherein  we  do 
not  so  much  respect  beauty,  as  variety  of  ground  and  soil,  proper  for  divers 
trees  and  herbs :  and  some  very  spacious,  where  trees  and  berries  are  set, 
whereof  we  make  divers  kinds  of  drinks,  besides  the  vineyards.  In  these 
we  practice  likewise  all  conclusions  of  grafting  and  inoculating,  as  well  of 
wild  trees  as  fruit  trees,  which  produceth  many  effects.  And  we  make  by 
art,  in  the  same  orchards  and  gardens,  trees  and  flowrers  to  come  earlier  or 
later  than  their  seasons ;  and  to  come  up  and  bear  more  speedily  than  by 
their  natural  course  they  do.  We  make  them  also  by  art  greater  much 
than  their  nature ;  and  their  fruit  greater,  and  sweeter,  and  of  differing 
taste,  smell,  color,  and  figure  from  their  nature.  And  many  of  them  we 
so  order,  as  they  become  of  medicinal  use. 

We  have  also  means  to  make  divers  plants  rise  by  mixture  of  earths 
without  seeds ;  and  likewise  to  make  divers  new  plants,  differing  from  the 
vulgar ;  and  to  make  one  tree  or  plant  turn  into  another.  .  .  . 


592  MANUAL  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


We  have  also  perspective  houses,  where  we  make  demonstrations  of  lights 
and  radiations ;  and  of  all  colors ;  and  out  of  things  uncolored  and  trans- 
parent, we  can  represent  unto  you  all  several  colors ;  not  in  rainbows  as  it 
is  in  gems  and  prisms,  but  of  themselves  single.  We  represent  also  all 
multiplications  of  light,  which  we  carry  to  great  distance ;  and  make  so 
sharp,  as  to  discern  small  points  and  lines ;  also  all  colorations  of  light ; 
all  delusions  and  deceits  of  the  sight,  in  figures,  magnitudes,  motions,  col- 
ors; all  demonstrations  of  shadows.  We  iind  also  divers  means  yet  un- 
known to  you,  of  producing  of  light  originally  from  divers  bodies.  We 
procure  means  of  seeing  objects  afar  off';  as  in  the  heaven  and  remote 
places ;  and  represent  things  near  as  far  off;  and  things  afar  off  as  near ; 
making  feigned  distances. 

We  have  also  helps  for  the  sight,  far  above  spectacles  and  glasses  in  use. 
We  have  also  glasses  and  means  to  see  small  and  minute  bodies  perfectly 
and  distinctly;  as  the  shapes  and  colors  of  small  flies  and  worms,  grains 
and  flaws  in  gems,  which  cannot  otherwise  be  seen  ;  observations  in  blood, 
not  otherwise  to  be  seen.  We  make  artificial  rainbows,  halos,  and  circles 
about  light.  We  represent  also  all  manner  of  reflections,  refractions,  and 
multiplications  of  visual  beams  of  objects. 

We  have  also  precious  stones  of  all  kinds,  many  of  them  of  great 
beauty,  to  you  unknown ;  crystals  likewise ;  and  glasses  of  divers  kinds ; 
and  amongst  them  some  of  metals  vitrificated,  and  other  materials,  besides 
those  of  which  you  make  glass.  Also  a  number  of  fossils,  and  imperfect 
minerals,  which  you  have  not.  Likewise  loadstones  of  prodigious  virtue ; 
and  other  rare  stones,  both  natural  and  artificial. 

We  have  also  sound-houses,  where  we  practice  and  demonstrate  all 
sounds,  and  their  generation.  We  have  harmonies  which  you  have  not 
of  quarter-sounds,  and  lesser  slides  of  sounds.  Divers  instruments  of 
music  likewise  to  you  unknown,  some  sweeter  than  any  you  have ;  together 
with  bells  and  rings  that  are  dainty  and  sweet.  We  represent  small  sounds 
as  great  and  deep ;  likewise  great  sounds  extenuate  and  sharp ;  we  make 
divers  tremblings  and  warblings  of  sounds,  which  in  their  original  are 
entire.  We  represent  and  imitate  all  articulate  sounds  and  letters,  and 
the  voice  and  notes  of  beasts  and  birds.  We  have  certain  helps,  which 
set  to  the  ear  do  further  the  hearing  greatly.  We  have  also  divers  strange 
and  artificial  echoes,  reflecting  tiie  voice  many  times,  and  as  it  were  tossing 
it :  and  some  that  give  back  the  voice  louder  than  it  came ;  some  shriller, 
and  some  deeper ;  yea,  some  rendering  the  voice  differing  in  the  letters  or 
articulate  sound  from  that  they  receive.  We  have  also  means  to  convey 
sound  in  trunks  and  pipes,  in  strange  lines  and  distances. 

We  have  also  perfume-houses ;  wherewith  we  join  all  practices  of  taste. 
We  multiply  smells,  which  may  seem  strange.  We  imitate  smells,  making 
all  smells  to  breathe  out  of  other  mixtures  than  those  that  give  them.  We 
make  divers  imitations  of  taste  likewise,  so  that  they  will  deceive  any  man's 
taste.  And  in  this  house  we  contain  also  a  coinfiture-house,  where  we  make 
all  sweetmeats,  dry  and  moist,  and  divers  pleasant  wines,  milks,  broths,  and 
salads,  in  far  greater  variety  than  you  have. 

We  have  also  engine-houses,  where  we  prepare  engines  and  instruments 
for  all  sorts  of  motions.  There  we  imitate  and  practice  to  make  swifter 
motions  than  any  you  have,  either  out  of  your  muskets,  or  any  engine  that 
you  have ;  and  to  make  them,  and  multiply  them  more  easily,  and  with 
email  force  by  wheels  and  other  means :  and  to  make  tiieia  stronger  and 


SAC  ON.  593 


more  violent  than  yours  are ;  exceeding  your  greatest  cannons  and  basi- 
lisks. We  represent  also  ordnance  and  instruments  of  war,  and  engines  of 
all  kinds:  and  likewise  new  mixtures  and  compositions  of  gunpowder, 
wildfires  burning  in  water,  and  unquenchable.  Also  fireworks  of  all  variety 
both  for  pleasure  and  use.  We  imitate  also  flight  of  birds :  we  have  some 
degree  of  flying  in  the  air ;  we  have  ships  and  boats  for  going  under  water, 
and  brooking  of  seas ;  also  swimming-girdles  and  supporters.  We  have 
divers  curious  clocks  and  other  like  motions  of  return,  and  some  perpetual 
motions.  We  imitate  also  motions  of  living  creatures  by  images  of  men, 
beasts,  birds,  fishes,  and  serpents ;  we  have  also  a  great  number  of  other 
various  motions,  strange  for  equality,  fineness,  and  subtilty.  .  .  . 

We  have  also  houses  of  deceits  of  the  senses,  where  we  represent  all 
manner  of  feats  of  juggling,  false  apparitions,  impostures,  and  illusions ; 
and  their  fallacies.  And  surely  you  will  easily  believe  that  we  that  have 
so  many  things  truly  natural,  which  induce  admiration,  could  in  a  world 
of  particulars  deceive  the  senses  if  we  would  disguise  those  things,  and 
labor  to  make  them  seem  more  miraculous.  But  we  do  hate  all  impostures 
and  lies:  insomuch  as  we  have  severally  forbidden  it  to  all  our  fellows, 
under  pain  of  ignominy  and  fines,  that  they  do  not  show  any  natural  work 
or  thing,  adorned  or  swelling ;  but  only  pure  as  it  is,  and  without  all  affec- 
tation of  strangeness. 

Of  the  Essays,  we  select  first  the  one  that  formed  the  first  of 
the  earliest  series  (1597). 

OF  STUDIES. 

Studies  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament,  and  for  ability.  Their  chief  use 
for  delight,  is  in  privateness  and  retiring ;  for  ornament,  is  in  discourse ; 
and  for  ability,  is  in  the  judgment  and  disposition  of  business ;  for  expert 
men  can  execute,  and  perhaps  judge  of  particulars  one  by  one ;  but  the 
general  counsels,  and  the  plots  and  marshaling  of  affairs,  come  best  from 
those  that  are  learned.  To  spend  too  much  time  in  studies,  is  sloth ;  to 
use  them  too  much  for  ornament,  is  affectation ;  to  make  judgment  wholly 
by  their  rules,,  is  the  humor  of  a  scholar.  They  perfect  nature,  and  are 
perfected  by  experience ;  for  natural  abilities  are  like  natural  plants,  that 
need  pruning  by  study  ;  and  studies  themselves  do  give  forth  directions  too 
much  at  large,  except  they  be  bounded  in  by  experience.  Crafty  men  con- 
temn studies,  simple  men  admire  them,  and  wise  men  use  them ;  for  they 
teach  not  their  own  use ;  but  that  is  a  wisdom  without  them  and  above 
them,  won  by  observation. 

Read  not  to  contradict  and  confute,  nor  to  believe  and  take  for  granted, 
nor  to  find  talk  and  discourse,  but  to  weigh  and  consider.     Some  books  are 
to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested ; 
that  is,  some  books  are  to  be  read  only  in  parts ;  others  to  be  read,  but  not 
curiously ;  and  some  few  to  be  read  wholly,  and  with  diligence  and  atten- 
tion.    Some  books  also  may  be  read  by  deputy,  and  extracts  made  of  them 
•  others ;  but  that  would  be  only  in  the  less  important  arguments  and 
e  meaner  sort  of  books ;  else  distilled  books  are,  like  common  distilled 
aters,  flashy*  things.     Reading  maketh  a  full  man ;  conference  a  ready 
,an ;  and  writing  an  exact  man ;  and,  therefore,  if  a  man  write  little,  he 

*  Vapid. 
50*        •  2N 


594  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


had  need  have  a  great  memory ;  if  he  confer  little,  he  had  need  have  a 
present  wit ;  and  if  he  read  little,  he  had  need  have  much  cunning,  to  seem 
to  know  that  he  doth  not. 

Histories  make  men  wise ;  poets,  witty  ;  the  mathematics,  subtile ;  natural 
philosophy,  deep  ;  moral,  grave ;  logic  and  rhetoric,  able  to  contend :  "Abeunt 
studio,  in  mores ; "  *  nay,  there  is  no  stand  or  impediment  in  the  wit,  but  may 
be  wrought  out  by  fit  studies.  Like  as  diseases  of  the  body  may  have  appro- 
priate exercises,  bowling  is  good  for  the  stone  and  reins,  shooting  for  the 
lungs  and  breast,  gentle  walking  for  the  stomach,  riding  for  the  head  and 
the  like ;  so,  if  a  man's  wit  be  wandering,  let  him  study  the  mathematics ; 
for  in  demonstrations,  if  his  wit  be  called  away  never  so  little,  he  must 
begin  again ;  if  his  wit  be  not  apt  to  distinguish  or  find  difference,  let  him 
study  the  schoolmen,  for  they  are  "  Cymini  secfort's."f  If  he  be  not  apt  to 
beat  over  matters,  and  to  call  up  one  thing  to  prove  and  illustrate  another, 
let  him  study  the  lawyer's  cases ;  so  every  defect  of  the  mind  may  have  a 
special  receipt. 

Lastly,  we  produce  one  of  the  latest  (1625)  written  of  the 

Essays. 

OF   ADVERSITY. 

It  was  a  high  speech  of  Seneca  (after  the  manner  of  the  Stoics)  that 
"  the  good  things  which  belong  to  prosperity  are  to  be  wished,  but  the  good 
things  that  belong  to  adversity  are  to  be  admired."  Certainly,  if  miracles 
be  the  command  over  nature,  they  appear  most  in  adversity.  It  is  yet  a 
higher  speech  of  his  than  the  other  ( much  too  high  for  a  heathen),  "  It  is 
true  greatness  to  have  in  one  the  frailty  of  a  man  and  the  security  of  a 
God."  This  would  have  done  better  in  poesy,  where  transcendencies  are 
more  allowed,  and  the  poets,  indeed,  have  been  busy  with  it ;  for  it  is,  in 
effect,  the  thing  which  is  figured  in  that  strange  fiction  of  the  ancient  poets, 
which  seemeth  not  to  be  without  mystery  ;  nay,  and  to  have  some  approach 
to  the  state  of  a  Christian,  "  that  Hercules,  when  he  went  to  unbind  Pro- 
metheus (by  whom  human  nature  is  represented),  sailed  the  length  of  the 
great  ocean  in  an  earthen  pot  or  pitcher,"  lively  describing  Christian  reso- 
lution, that  saileth  in  the  frail  bark  of  the  flesh  through  the  waves  of  the 
world. 

But  to  speak  in  a  mean,  the  virtue  of  prosperity  is  temperance,  the  virtue 
of  adversity  is  fortitude,  which  in  morals  is  the  more  heroical  virtue. 
Prosperity  is  the  blessing  of  the  Old  Testament,  adversity  is  the  blessing 
of  the  New,  which  carrieth  the  greater  benediction,  and  the  clearer  reve- 
lation of  God's  favor.  Yet  even  in  the  Old  Testament,  if  you  listen  to 
David's  harp,  you  shall  hear  as  many  hearse-like  airs  as  carols;  and  the 
pencil  of  the  Holy  Ghost  hath  labored  more  in  describing  the  afflictions 
of  Job  than  the  felicities  of  Solomon.  Prosperity  is  not  without  many 
fears  and  distastes ;  and  adversity  is  not  without  comforts  and  hopes.  We 
see,  in  needlework  and  embroideries,  it  is  more  pleasing  to  have  a  lively 
work  upon  a  sad  and  solemn  ground,  than  to  have  a  dark  and  melancholy 
work  upon  a  lightsome  ground :  judge,  therefore,  of  the  pleasure  of  the 
heart  by  the  pleasure  of  the  eye.  Certainly,  virtue  is  like  precious  odors, 
most  fragrant  when  they  are  incensed  or  crushed  ;  for  prosperity  doth  best 
discover  vice,  but  adversity  doth  best  discover  virtue. 

*  "  Studies  become  habits."  f  "  Splitters  of  cummin-seeds." 


SAC  ON.  595 


"It  is  by  the  Essays,"  says  Lord  Macaulay,  "that  Bacon  is  best 
known  to  the  multitude.  The  Novum  Organum  and  the  De  Auy- 
mcntis  are  much  talked  of  but  little  read.  They  have  -produced 
indeed  a  vast  effect  on  the  opinions  of  mankind;  but  they  have 
produced  it  through  the  operations  of  intermediate  agents.  They 
have  moved  the  intellects  which  have  moved  the  world.  It  is  in 
the  Essays  alone  that  the  mind  of  Bacon  is  brought  into  immediate 
contact  with  the  minds  of  ordinary  readers.  There  he  opens  an 
exoteric  school,  and  he  talks  to  plain  men  in  language  which  every- 
body understands,  about  things  in  which  everybody  is  interested." 

Speaking  of  his  philosophy,  the  same  authority  above  quoted 
remarks:  "What  Bacon  did  for  the  inductive  philosophy  may,  we 
think,  be  fairly  stated  thus.  The  objects  of  preceding  speculators 
were  objects  which  could  be  obtained  without  careful  induction. 
Those  speculators,  therefore,  did  not  perform  the  inductive  process 
carefully.  Bacon  stirred  up  men  to  pursue  an  object  which  could 
be  attained  only  by  induction,  and  by  induction  carefully  per- 
formed ;  and  consequently  induction  was  more  carefully  per- 
formed. It  was  not  by  furnishing  philosophers  with  rules  for  per- 
forming the  inductive  process  well,  but  by  furnishing  them  with  a 
motive  for  performing  it  well,  that  he  conferred  so  vast  a  benefit 
on  society." 

The  same  authority  sums  up  Bacon's  mental  characteristics  as 
follows :  "  With  great  minuteness  of  observation  he  had  an  ampli- 
tude of  comprehension  such  as  has  never  yet  been  vouchsafed  to 
any  other  human  being.  The  Essays  contain  abundant  proofs  that 
110  nice  feature  of  character,  no  peculiarity  in  the  ordering  of  a 
house,  a  garden,  or  a  court-masque,  could  escape  the  notice  of  one 
whose  mind  was  capable  of  taking  in  the  whole  world  of  knowl- 
edge. His  understanding  resembled  the  tent  which  the  fairy  Pari- 
banon  gave  to  Prince  Ahmed.  Fold  it,  and  it  seemed  a  toy  for  the 
hand  of  a  lady.  Spread  it,  and  the  armies  of  powerful  sultans 
might  repose  beneath  its  shade. 

"  In  keenness  of  observation  he  has  been  equalled,  though  per- 
haps never  surpassed.  But  the  largeness  of  his  mind  was  all  his 
own.  The  glance  with  which  he  surveyed  the  intellectual  universe 
resembled  that  with  which  the  archangel,  from  the  golden  thresh- 
old of  heaven,  darted  down  into  the  new  creation.  There  have 
been  thousands  of  better  mathematicians,  astronomers,  chemists, 
physicians,  botanists,  mineralogists,  than  Bacon.  No  man  would 
go  to  Bacon's  works  to  learn  any  particular  science  or  art;  any 
more  than  he  would  go  to  a  twelve-inch  globe  in  order  to  find  his 
way  from  Kennington  Turnpike  to  Clapham  Common.  The  art 
which  Bacon  taught  was  the  art  of  inventing  arts.  The  knowl- 


596  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


edge  in  which  Bacon  excelled  all  men  was  a  knowledge  of  the 
mutual  relations  of  all  departments  of  knowledge. 

"  Though  Bacon  did  not  arm  his  philosophy  with  the  weapons 
of  logic,  he  adorned  her  profusely  with  all  the  richest  decorations 
of  rhetoric.  His  eloquence,  though  not  untainted  with  the  vicious 
taste  of  his  age,  would  alone  have  entitled  him  to  a  high  rank  in 
literature.  He  had  a  wonderful  talent  for  packing  thought  close 
and  rendering  it  portable.  In  wit,  if  by  wit  be  meant- the  power 
of  perceiving  analogies  between  things  which  appear  to  have  noth- 
ing in  common,  he  never  had  an  equal — not  even  Cowley — not  even 
the  author  of  Hudibras. 

"  The  poetical  faculty  was  powerful  in  Bacon's  mind  ;  but  not, 
like  his  wit,  so  powerful  as  occasionally  to  usurp  the  place  of  his 
reason,  and  to  tyrannize  over  the  whole  man.  No  imagination  was 
ever  at  once  so  strong  and  so  thoroughly  subjugated.  It  never 
stirred  but  at  a  signal  from  good  sense.  Yet,  though  disciplined 
to  such  obedience,  it  gave  noble  proofs  of  its  vigor. 

"  One  of  the  most  remarkable  circumstances  in  the  history  of 
Bacon's  mind  is  the  order  in  which  its  powers  expanded  themselves. 
With  him  the  fruit  came  first  and  remained  till  the  last :  the  blos- 
soms did  not  appear  till  late.  It  rarely  happens  that  the  fancy  and 
the  judgment  grow  together.  It  happens  still  more  rarely  that  the 
judgment  grows  faster  than  the  fancy.  This  seems,  however,  to 
have  been  the  case  with  Bacon.  His  boyhood  and  youth  seem  to 
have  been  singularly  sedate.  His  gigantic  scheme  of  philosophical 
reform  is  said  by  some  writers  to  have  been  planned  before  he  was 
fifteen  ;  and  was  undoubtedly  planned  while  he  was  still  young. 
He  observed  as  vigilantly,  meditated  as  deeply,  and  judged  as  tem- 
perately when  he  gave  his  first  work  to  the  world  as  at  the  close  of 
his  long  career.  But  in  eloquence,  in  sweetness  and  variety  of 
expression,  and  in  richness  of  illustration  his  later  writings  are  far 
superior  to  those  of  his  youth." 


EDMUND    SPENSER. 


EDMUND  SPENSER  was  born  in  London,  probably  in  the  year 
1552.  His  parents,  though  of  gentle  birth,  were  poor,  as  we 
learn  from  the  fact  that  our  poet,  when  seventeen,  was  admitted 
to  Pembroke  Hall,  Cambridge,  as  a  sizar,  or  charity  student. 
After  seven  years  of  university  life,  Spenser  took  his  degree, 
and  went  to  reside  for  a  short  time  with  some  friends  or  relatives 
in  the  north  of  England. 

A  recommendation  from  Sir  Philip  (then  Mr.)  Sidney — whose 
acquaintance  he  had  shortly  before  made — to  his  uncle,  the  Earl 
of  Leicester,  brought  Spenser,  in  1579,  back  to  London.  In 
December  of  the  same  year  he  published  his  Shepherd's  Calen- 
dar— a  series  of  twelve  eclogues  inscribed  to  the  twelve  months 
of  the  year.  These  pastorals,  not  restricting  themselves  to  a 
description  of  rural  scenery  and  rustic  manners  and  occupations, 
most  unnaturally  put  into  the  mouths  of  shepherds  learned 
ecclesiastical  and  philosophical  sentiments  and  ideas.  More- 
over, in  his  solicitude  to  avoid  over  refinement  of  style  and  dic- 
tion, Spenser  fell  into  the  opposite  fault  of  employing  a  profusion 
of  obsolete  and  uncouth  words  and  phrases! 

In  1580,  Spenser  went  to  Ireland,  as  secretary  to  Lord  Grey. 
Six  years  later,  as  a  reward  for  faithful  and  valuable  services, 
he  received  from  government  a  grant  of  3028  acres  of  the  con- 
fiscated lands  of  the  Earl  of  Desmond — and  here,  in  the  castle 
of  Kilcolman,  environed  with  the  most  lovely  scenery,  he  passed 
the  major  part  of  the  rest  of  his  days.  Here,  in  1589,  he  was 
visited  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  to  whom  he  read  the  first  three 
books  of  The  Faery  Queene — a  poem  on  which  he  had  long  been 
meditating,  and  whose  progress  the  tranquillity  and  loveliness 
of  his  present  abode  greatly  facilitated.  Raleigh,  enraptured 
of  the  poem,  persuaded  its  author  to  return  with  him  to  Eng- 
land, where  he  presented  him  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  by  whom  he 
was  graciously  received. 

597 


598  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

The  poem — the  first  three  books — was  published  in  1590,  but 
about  a  year  elapsed  before  Spenser  received  the  royal  recogni- 
tion of  its  merits  that  he  had  expected  much  sooner — a  pension 
from  the  Queen.  The  splendors  and  the  vanities  of  the  court 
life  he  had  witnessed  at  London  were,  on  his  return  to  Ireland, 
set  forth  in  the  poem,  Colin  Clout 's  come  Home  Againe,  published 
in  1595.  Astrophel,  a  Pastorall  Elegie  upon  the  Death  of  the  most 
noble  and  valorous  knight,  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  appeared  in  the 
same  year.  Amoretti,  or  /Sonnets,  and  Fowre  Hymnes  were  pub- 
lished in  the  two  years  following. 

Again,  in  1595,  Spenser  visited  England,  where,  the  next  year, 
he  gave  to  the  world  three  more  books — the  last — of  his  Faery 
Queene.  During  this  visit  also  he  presented  to  the  Queen  a 
prose  tract  —  View  of  the  /State  of  Ireland — "displaying  the 
sagacity  of  an  English  statesman,  but  a  spirit  towards  the  poor 
native  Irish  as  ruthless  as  Cromwell's." 

Hardly  had  he  returned  to  Ireland,  where,  as  Sheriff  of  Cork, 
his  worldly  prospects  promised  fair,  when,  by  the  Insurrection 
of  Munster,  he  was  driven  from  the  country ;  his  house  was  pil- 
laged and  burned,  one  of  his  children — so  says  Ben  Jonson — 
perishing  in  the  flames.  Escaping  to  London,  he  soon  after- 
wards,— on  January  16,  1599, — died  there,  poor  and  broken- 
hearted. He  was  buried,  at  the  expense  of  the  Earl  of  Essex, 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  next  to  Chaucer,  and  "  his  hearse  was 
attended  by  poets;  and  mournful  elegies  and  poems,  with  the 
pens  that  wrote  them,  were  thrown  into  his  tomb." 

As  explanatory  of  the  original  scope  and  design  of  the  Faery 
Queene,  we  extract  a  few  passages  from  the  author's  letter  ad- 
dressed "  To  the  Right  Noble  and  Valorous  Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 
knight." 

"Sir,  knowing  how  doubtfully  all  Allegories  may  be  construed, 
and  this  Booke  of  mine,  which  I  have  entitled  '  The  Faery  Queene,' 
being  a  continued  Allegory,  or  darke  Conceit,  I  have  thought  good 
as  well  for  avoyding  of  gealous  opinions  and  misconstructions,  as 
also  for  your  better  light  in  reading  thereof,  (being  so  by  you  com- 
manded,) to  discover  unto  you  the  general  intention  and  meaning, 
which  in  the  whole  course  thereof  I  have  fashioned,  without 
expressing  of  any  particular  purpose,  or  by- accidents,  therein  oc- 
casioned. 


SPXXSKR.  599 


"  The  general  end  therefore  of  all  the  Booke  is  to  fashion  a  gentle- 
man or  noble  person  in  vertuous  and  gentle  discipline :  which  for 
that  I  conceived  shoulde  be  most  plausible  and  pleasing,  being  col- 
oured with  an  historical  fiction,  the  which  the  most  part  of  men 
delight  to  read,  rather  for  variety  of  matter  than  for  profite  of 
the  ensample,  I  chose  the  Historye  of  King  Arthure,  as  most  fitte 
for  the  excellency  of  his  person,  being  made  famous  by  many  mens 
former  workes,  and  also  furthest  from  the  daunger  of  envy,  and 
suspition  of  present  time.  In  which  I  have  followed  all  the  antique 
poets  historicall.  ...  By  ensample  of  which  excellente  poets,  I 
labour  to  ponrtraict  in  Arthure,  before  he  was  king,  the  image  of 
a  brave  Knight,  perfected  in  the  twelve  private  Morall  Vertues,  as 
Aristotle  hath  devised ;  the  which  is  the  purpose  of  these  first 
twelve  bookes  :  which  if  I  finde  to  be  well  accepted,  I  may  be  per- 
haps encoraged  to  frame  the  other  part  of  Polliticke  Vertues  in  his 
person,  after  that  hee  came  to  be  king.  .  .  . 

"  So  have  I  laboured  to  do  in  the  person  of  Arthure :  whom  I 
conceive,  after  his  long  education  by  Timon,  to  whom  he  was  by 
Merlin  delivered  to  be  brought  up,  so  soone  as  he  was  borne  of  the 
Lady  Igrayne,  to  have  seene  in  a  dream  or  vision  the  Faery  Queene, 
with  whose  excellent  beauty  ravished,  he  awaking  resolved  to  seeke 
her  out ;  and  so  being  by  Merlin  armed,  and  by  Timon  thoroughly 
instructed,  he  went  to  seeke  her  forth  in  Faerye  land.  In  that 
Faery  Queene  I  meane  Glory  in  my  generall  intention,  but  in  my 
particular  I  conceive  the  most  excellent  and  glorious  person  of  our 
soveraine  the  Queene,  and  her  kingdom  in  Faery  Land.  .  .  . 

"  So  in  the  person  of  Prince  Arthure  I  sette  forth  Magnificence 
(or  Magnanimity)  in  particular ;  which  Vertue,  for  that  (according 
to  Aristotle  and  the  rest)  it  is  the  perfection  of  all  the  rest,  and 
conteineth  in  it  them  all,  therefore  in  the  whole  course  I  mention 
the  deeds  of  Arthure  applyable  to  that  Vertue,  which  I  write  of  in 
that  Booke.  But  of  the  xii  other  Vertues,  I  make  xii  other  Knights 
the  patrones,  for  the  more  variety  of  the  history.  .  .  .  The  begin- 
ning therefore  of  my  History,  if  it  were  to  be  told  by  an  histori- 
ographer, should  be  the  twelfth  Booke,  which  is  the  last;  where  I 
devise  that  the  Faery  Queene  kept  her  annual  feaste  xii  days; 
uppon  which  xii  severall  dayes,  the  occasions  of  the  xii  severall 
Adventures  hapned,  which,  being  undertaken  by  xii  severall 
Knights,  are  in  these  xii  Bookes  severally  handled  and  discoursed." 

Of  this  vast  undertaking — for  each  of  the  projected  twelve  books 
was  to  consist  of  twelve  cantos — our  poet  lived  to  complete  only 
six  books.  But  these  six  constitute  one  of  the  longest  poems  ever 
written.  The  virtues  personified  are  in  Book  I.,  Holiness,  in  the 


600  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Knight  of  the  Red  Cross ;  Book  II.,  Temperance,  in  Sir  Guyon ; 
Book  III.,  Chastity,  in  Britomartis,  a  Lady  Knight;  Book  IV., 
Friendship,  in  Cambel  and  Triamond;  Book  V.,  Justice,  in  Arte- 
gall;  Book  VI.,  Courtesy,  in  Sir  Calidore.  Besides  these,  our  poet 
left  two  cantos  on  Mutability. 

From  Canto  XI.  of  Book  I.,  we  extract  the  description  of  the 
Dragon,  which  the  Knight  of  the  Red  Cross  fought  with  through 
two  days  : 

By  this,  the  dreadful  Beast  drew  nigh  to  hand, 
Halfe  flying  and  halfe  footing  in  his  haste, 
That  with  his  largenesse  measured  much  land, 
And  made  wide  shadow  under  his  huge  waste ; 
As  mountaine  doth  the  valley  overcaste. 
Approching  nigh,  he  reared  high  afore 
His  body  monstrous,  horrible,  and  vaste ; 
Which,  to  increase  his  wondrous  greatnes  more; 
Was  swoln  with  wrath  and  poyson,  and  with  bloody  gore ; 

And  over  all  with  brasen  scales  was  armd, 
Like  plated  cote  of  steele,  so  couched  neare 
That  nought  mote  perce ;  ne  might  his  corse  be  harmd 
With  dint  of  swerd,  nor  push  of  pointed  speare : 
Which,  as  an  eagle,  seeing  pray  appeare, 
His  aery  plumes  doth  rouze  full  rudely  dight ; 
So  shaked  he,  that  horror  was  to  heare : 
For,  as  the  clashing  of  an  armor  bright, 
Such  noyse  his  rouzed  scales  did  send  unto  the  Knight. 

His  flaggy  winges,  when  forth  he  did  display, 
Were  like  two  sayles,  in  which  the  hollow  wynd 
Is  gathered  full,  and  worketh  speedy  way  : 
And  eke  the  pennes,*  that  did  his  pineons  bynd, 
Were  like  mayne-yardes  with  flying  canvas  lynd ; 
With  which  whenas  him  list  the  ayre  to  beat, 
And  there  by  force  unwonted  passage  fynd, 
The  cloudes  before  him  fledd  for  terror  great, 
And  all  the  hevens  stood  still  amazed  with  his  threat. 

His  huge  long  tayle,  wound  up  in  hundred  foldes, 
Does  overspred  his  long  bras-scaly  back, 
Whose  wreathed  bough  test  when  ever,  he  unfoldes, 
And  thick-entangled  knots  adown  does  slack, 
Bespotted  as  with  shieldes  of  red  and  blacke, 


*  Feathers.  f  Folds. 


SPENSEE.  601 


It  sweepeth  all  the  land  behind  him  farre, 
And  of  three  furlongs  does  but  little  lacke ; 
And  at  the  point  two  stinges  infixed  arre, 
Both  deadly  sharp,  that  sharpest  steele  exceeden  farre. 

But  stinges  and  sharpest  steele  did  far  exceed 
The  sharpenesse  of  his  cruel  rending  clawes: 
Dead  was  it  sure,  as  sure  as  death  indeed, 
What  ever  thing  does  touch  his  ravenous  pawes, 
Or  what  within  his  reach  he  ever  drawes. 
But  his  most  hideous  head  my  tongue  to  tell 
Does  tremble ;  for  his  deepe  devouring  iawes 
Wyde  gaped,  like  the  griesly  mouth  of  hell, 
Through  which  into  his  darke  abysse  all  ravin  *  fell. 

And,  that  more  wondrous  was,  in  either  iaw 
Three  ranckes  of  yron  teeth  enraunged  were, 
In  which  yett  trickling  blood,  and  gobbets  raw, 
Of  late  devoured  bodies  did  appeare ; 
That  sight  thereof  bredd  cold  congealed  feare: 
Which  to  increase,  and  all  at  once  to  kill, 
A  cloud  of  smoothering  smoke,  and  sulphure  seare,f 
Out  of  his  stinking  gorge  t  forth  steemed  still, 
That  all  the  ayre  about  with  smoke  and  stench  did  fill. 

His  blazing  eyes,  like  two  bright  shining  shieldes, 
Did  burne  with  wrath,  and  sparkled  living  fyre : 
As  two  broad  beacons,  sett  in  open  fieldes, 
Send  forth  their  flames  far  off  to  every  shyre,§ 
And  warning  give,  that  enemies  conspyre 
With  fire  and  sword  the  region  to  invade ; 
So  flam'd  his  eyne  with  rage  and  rancorous  yre : 
But  far  within,  as  in  a  hollow  glade, 
Those  glaring  lampes  were  sett,  that  made  a  dreadfull  shade. 

So  dreadfully  towardes  him  did  pas, 
Forelifting  up  aloft  his  speckled  brest, 
And  often  bounding  on  the  brused  gras, 
As  for  great  ioyance  of  his  new  come  guest. 
Eftsoones  ||  he  pin  advance  his  haughty  crest ; 
As  chauffed  bore  his  bristles  doth  upreare ; 
And  shake  his  scales  to  battaile  ready  drest, 
(That  made  the  Redcrosse  Knight  nigh  quake  for  feare,) 
As  bidding  bold  defyaunce  to  his  foeman  neare. 


*  Pre£.  f  Burning.  *  Throat.  \  Region. 

8  Immediately. 
51 


602  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

The  Knight  gan  fayrely  couch  his  steady  speare, 
And  fiersely  ran  at  him  with  rigorous  might : 
The  pointed  steele,  arriving  rudely  theare, 
His  harder  hyde  would  nether  perce  nor  bight, 
But,  glauncing  by,  foorth  passed  forward  right : 
Yet,  sore  amoved  with  so  puissant  push, 
The  wrathful  Beast  about  him  turned  light, 
And  him  so  rudely,  passing  by,  did  brush 
With  his  long  tayle,  that  horse  and  man  to  ground  did  rush. 

Both  horse  and  man  up  lightly  rose  againe, 
And  fresh  encounter  towardes  him  addrest: 
But  th'  ydle  stroke  yet  backe  recoyled  in  vaine, 
And  found  no  place  his  deadly  point  to  rest. 
Exceeding  rage  enflam'd  the  furious  Beast, 
To  be  avenged  of  so  great  despight; 
For  never  felt  his  impercfeable  brest 
So  wondrous  force  from  hand  of  living  wight ; 
Yet  had  he  prov'd  the  powre  of  many  a  puissant  Knight. 

Then,  with  his  waving  wings  displayed  wyde, 
Himselfe  up  high  he  lifted  from  the  ground, 
And  with  strong  flight  did  forcibly  divyde 
The  yielding  ay  re,  which  nigh  too  feeble  found 
Her  flitting*  parts,  and  element  unsound, 
To  beare  so  great  a  weight :   He,  cutting  way 
With  his  broad  sayles,  about  him  soared  round ; 
At  last,  low  stouping  with  unweldy  sway, 
Snatcht  up  both  horse  and  man,  to  beare  them  quite  away. 

Long  he  them  bore  above  the  subject  plaine, 
So  far  as  ewghenf  bow  a  shaft  may  send; 
Till  struggling  strong  did  him  at  last  constraine 
To  let  them  downe  before  his  flightes  end : 
As  hagardj  hanke,  presuming  to  contend 
With  hardy  fowle  above  his  liable  $  might, 
His  wearie  pounces  ||  all  in  vaine  doth  spend 
To  trusse^  the  pray  too  heavy  for  his  flight; 
Which,  comming  down  to  ground,  does  free  itselfe  by  fight. 

He  so  disseized  of  his  gryping  grosse, 

The  Knight  his  thrillant**  speare  again  assayd 

In  his  bras-plated  body  to  embosse,ff 

And  three  mens  strength  unto  the  stroake  he  layd ; 

*  Fleeting  or  light.  t  Made  of  yew.  J  Wild.  §  Proper  might. 

||  Claws.  1f  Bear  aloft.  **  Piercing.  ft  Enclose. 


SPENSER.  603 


Wherewith  the  stiffe  beame  quaked,  as  affrayd, 
And  glauncing  from  his  scaly  necke  did  glyde 
Close  under  his  left  wing,  then  broad  displayd  : 
The  percing  steele  there  wrought  a  wound  full  wyde, 
That  with  the  uncouth ;:'  smart  the  Monster  lowdly  cryde. 

He  cryde,  as  raging  seas  are  wont  to  rore, 
When  wintry  storme  his  wrathful  wreck  does  threat ; 
The  rolling  billowes  beate  the  ragged  shore, 
As  they  the  earth  would-  shoulder  from  her  seat; 
And  greedy  gulfe  does  gape,  as  he  would  eat 
His  neighbour  element  in  his  revenge : 
Then  gin  the  blustring  brethren  boldly  threat 
To  move  the  world  from  off  his  stedfast  henge, 
And  boystrous  battaile  make,  each  other  to  avenge. 

The  steely  head  stuck  fast  still  in  his  flesh, 
Till  with  his  cruell  clawes  he  snatcht  the  wood, 
And  quite  asunder  broke :   Forth  flowed  fresh 
A  gushing  river  of  blacke  gory  blood, 
That  drowned  all  the  land,  whereon  he  stood ; 
The  streame  thereof  would  drive  a  water-mill: 
Trebly  augmented  was  his  furious  mood 
With  bitter  sence  of  his  deepe  rooted  ill, 
That  flames  of  fire  he  threw  forth  from  his  large  nosethrill. 

His  hideous  tayle  then  hurled  he  about, 
And  therewith  all  enwrapt  the  nimble  thyes 
Of  his  froth-fomy  steed,  whose  courage  stout 
Striving  to  loose  the  knott  that  fast  him  tyes, 
Himselfe  in  streighter  bandes  too  rash  implyes,f 
That  to  the  ground  he  is  perforce  constraynd 
To  throw  his  ryder :   who  can  quickly  ryse . 
From  off  the  earth,  with  durty  blood  distaynd, 
For  that  reprochfull  fall  right  fowly  he  disdaynd ; 

And  fercely  tooke  his  trenchand  blade  in  hand, 
With  which  he  stroke  so  furious  and  so  fell, 
That  nothing  seemd  the  puissance  could  withstand-. 
Upon  his  crest  the  hardned  yron  fell ; 
But  his  more  hardned  crest  was  armd  so  well, 
That  deeper  dint  therein  it  would  not  make ; 
Yet  so  extremely  did  the  buffe  him  quell, 
That  from  thenceforth  he  shund  the  like  to  take, 
But,  when  he  saw  them  come,  he  did  them  still  forsake.J 

*  Strange.  t  Entangles.  J  Avoid. 


604  MAX  UAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITEIIATURE. 


The  Knight  was  wroth  to  see  his  stroke  beguyld, 
And  smot  againe  with  more  outrageous  might ; 
But  backe  againe  the  sparcling  steele  recoyld, 
And  left  not  any  marke  where  it  did  light, 
As  if  in  adamant  rocke  it  had  been  pight.* 
The  Beast,  impatient  of  his  smarting  wound 
And  of  so  fierce  and  forcible  despight, 
Thought  with  his  winges  to  styef  above  the  ground; 
But  his  late  wounded  wing  unserviceable  found. 

Then,  full  of  grief  and  anguish  vehement, 
He  lowdly  brayd,  that  like  was  never  heard ; 
And  from  his  wide  devouring  oven  sent 
A  flake  of  fire,  that,  flashing  in  his  beard, 
Him  all  amazd,  and  almost  made  afeard  : 
The  scorching  flame  sore  swinged  J  all  his  face, 
And  through  his  armour  all  his  body  seard, 
That  he  could  not  endure  so  cruell  cace, 
But  thought  his  armes  to  leave,  and  helmet  to  ulace. 

Not  that  great  champion  of  the  antique  world, 
Whom  famous  poetes  verse  so  much  doth  vaunt, 
And  hath  for  twelve  huge  labours  high  extold, 
So  many  furies  and  sharpe  fits  did  haunt, 
When  him  the  poysoned  garment  did  enchaunt, 
With  Centaures  blood  and  bloody  verses  charmd ; 
As  did  this  Knight  twelve  thousand  dolours  daunt, 
Whom  fyrie  steele  now  burnt,  that  erst  §  him  armd ; 
That  erst  $  him  goodly  armd,  now  most  of  all  him  harmd. 

Faynt,  wearie,  sore,  emboyled,||  grieved,  brent,^[ 
With  heat,  toyle,  wounds,  armes,  smart,  and  inward 
That  never  man  such  mischiefes  did  torment; 
Death  better  were ;  death  did  he  oft  desire ; 
But  death  will  never  come,  when  needes  require. 
Whom  so  dismayd  when  that  his  foe  beheld, 
He  cast**  to  suffer  him  no  more  respire, 
But  gan  his  sturdy  sterne  about  to  weld, 
And  him  so  strongly  stroke,  that  to  the  ground  him  feld. 

In  Book  II.,  Canto  XII.,  we  find  the  following  description  of 
the  Bowre  of  Blisse  : 

Tl/ence  passing  forth,  they  ff  shortly  do  arrgue 
Whereas  the  Bowre  of  Blisse  was  situate ; 

*  Thrust.  f  Mount.  $  Singed.  g  Before.  ||  Scorched. 

If  Burned.  **  Determined.  ff  Sir  Guyon  and  Palmer. 


SPENSER.  605 


A  place  pickt  out  by  choyce  of  best  alyve, 
That  natures  worke  by  art  can  imitate: 
In  which  whatever  in  this  worldly  state 
Is  sweete  and  pleasing  unto  living  sense, 
Or  that  may  dayntest  fantasy  aggrate,* 
Was  poured  forth  with  plentiful!  dispence.f 
And  made  there  to  abound  with  lavish  affluence. 

Goodly  it  was  enclosed  rownd  about, 
As  well  their  entred  guestes  to  keep  within, 
As  those  unruly  beasts  to  hold  without; 
Yet  was  the  fence  thereof  but  weake  and  thin ; 
Nought  feard  their  force  that  fortilagej  to  win, 
But  Wisedomes$  powre,  and  Temperaunces$  might, 
By  which  the  mightiest  things  efforced  bin :  || 
And  eke  the  gate  was  wrought  of  substaunce  light, 
Rather  for  pleasure  then  for  battery  or  fight. 

Yt  framed  was  of  precious  yvory, 
That  seemd  a  worke  of  admirable  witt ; 
And  therein  all  the  famous  history 
Of  lason  and  Medaea  was  ywritt ; 
Her  mighty  charmes,  her  furious  loving  fitt ; 
His  goodly  conquest  of  the  golden  fleece, 
His  falsed  fayth,  and  love  too  lightly  flitt  ;fl 
The  wondred  Argo,  which  in  venturous  peece 
First  through  the  Euxine  seas  bore  all  the  flowr  of  Greece. 

Ye  might  have  scene  the  frothy  billowes  fry  ** 
Under  the  ship  as  through  them  she  went, 
That  seemed  the  waves  were  into  yvory, 
Or  yvory  into  the  waves  were  sent ; 
And  otherwhere  the  snowy  substaunce  sprentf* 
With  vermeil,!]:  like  the  boyes  blood  therein  shed, 
A  piteous  spectacle  did  represent ; 
And  otherwhiles  with  gold  besprinkeled 
Yt  seemed  th'  enchaunted  flame,  which  did  Creusa  wed. 

All  this  and  more  might  in  that  goodly  gate 

Be  red,  that  ever  open  stood  to  all 

Which  thether  came:   but  in  the.  porch  there  sate 

A  comely  personage  of  stature  tali, 

And  semblaunce  pleasing,  more  than  naturall, 

*  Delight.          f  Expense.          t  Fortress.          8  Sir  Guyon  and  Palmer. 
II  Are  fi  Departed.         **  Foam.         tf  Sprinkled.         JJ  Vermilion. 

51* 


606  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

That  travellers  to  him  seemd  to  enlize; 
His  looser  garment  to  the  ground  did  fall, 
And  flew  about  his  heeles  in  wanton  wize, 
Not  fitt  for  speedy  pace  or  manly  exercise. 

They  in  that  place  him  Genius  did  call : 
Not  that  celestiall  Powre,  to  whom  the  care 
Of  life,  and  generation  of  all 
That  lives,  perteines  in  charge  particulare, 
Who  wondrous  things  concerning  our  welfare, 
And  straunge  phantomes,  doth  lett  us  ofte  foresee, 
And  ofte  of  secret  ills  bids  us  beware: 
That  is  our  selfe,  whom  though  we  do  not  see, 
Yet  each  doth  in  himselfe  it  well  perceive  to  bee : 

Therefore  a  god  him  sage  Antiquity 
Did  wisely  make,  and  good  Agdistes  call : 
But  this  same  was  to  that  quite  contrary, 
The  foe  of  life,  that  good  envyes  to  all, 
That  secretly  doth  us  procure  to  fall 
Through  guilefull  semblants,  which  he  makes  us  see : 
He  of  this  Gardin  had  the  governall,* 
And  Pleasures  Porter  was  devized  to  bee, 
Holding  a  staffe  in  hand  for  mere  formalitee. 

With  diverse  flowres  he  daintily  was  deckt, 
And  strowed  round  about ;  and  by  his  side 
A  mighty  mazer  t  bowle  of  wine  was  sett, 
As  if  it  had  to  him  bene  sacrifide ; 
Wherewith  all  new-come  guests  he  gratyfide : 
So  did  he  eke  Sir  Guyon  passing  by; 
But  he  his  ydle  curtesie  defide, 
And  overthrew  his  bowle  disdainfully, 
And  broke  his  staffe,  with  which  he  charmed  semblants  sly. 

Thus  being  entred,  they  behold  arownd 
A  large  and  spacious  plaine,  on  every  side 
Strowed  with  pleasauns ;  whose  fayre  grassy  grownd 
Mantled  with  greene,  and  goodly  beautifide 
With  all  the  ornaments  of  Floraes  pride, 
Wherewith  her  mother  Art,  as  halfe  in  scorne 
Of  niggard  Nature,  like  a  pompous  bride 
Did  decke  her,  and  too  lavishly  adorne, 
When  forth  from  virgin  bowre  she  comes  in  th'  early  morne. 


*  Government.  I  Maple. 

A 


SPENSER.  607 


Thereto  the  heavens  alwayes  joviall 
Lookte  on  them  lovely,  still  in  stedfast  state, 
Ne  suffred  storme  nor  frost  on  them  to  fall, 
Their  tender  buds  or  leaves  to  violate ; 
Nor  scorching  heat,  nor  cold  intemperate, 
T' afflict  the  creatures  which  therein  did  dwell; 
But  the  milde  ayre  with  season  moderate 
Gently  attempred,  and  disposed  so  well, 
That  still  it  breathed  forth  sweet  spirit  and  holesom  smell 

More  sweet  and  holesome  then  the  pleasaunt  hill 
Of  Rhodope,  on  which  the  nimphe,  that  bore 
A  gyaunt  babe,  herselfe  for  griefe  did  kill; 
Or  the  Thessalian  Tempe,  when  of  yore 
Fayre  Daphne  Phoebus  hart  with  love  did  gore ; 
Or  Ida,  where  the  gods  lov'd  to  repayre, 
Whenever  they  their  heavenly  bowres  forlore;* 
Or  sweet  Parnasse,  the  haunt  of  Muses  fayre ; 
Or  Eden  selfe,  if  ought  with  Eden  mote  compayre. 

Much  wondred  Guy  on  at  the  fayre  aspect 
Of  that  sweet  place,  yet  suffred  no  delight 
'To  sincke  into  his  sence,  nor  mind  affect; 
But  passed  forth,  and  lookt  still  forward  right, 
Brydling  his  will  and  maysteringf  his  might: 
Till  that  he  came  unto  another  gate  : 
No  gate,  but  like  one,  being  goodly  dight 
With  bowes  and  braunches,  which  did  broad  dilate 
Their  clasping  armes  in  \variton  wreathings  intricate. 

So  fashioned  a  porch  with  rare  device, 
Aroht  over  head  with  an  embracing  vine, 
Whose  bounches  hanging  downe  seemd  to  entice 
All  passers-by  to  taste  their  lushious  wine, 
And  did  themselves  into  their  hands  incline, 
As  freely  offering  to  be  gathered ; 
Some  deepe  empurpled  as  the  hyacine, 
Some  as  the  rubine  laughing  sweetely  red, 
Some  like  faire  emerandes,J  not  yet  well  ripened: 

And  them  amongst  some  were  of  burnisht  gold, 

So  made  by  art  to  beautify  the  rest, 

Which  did  themselves  emongst  the  leaves  enfold, 

As  lurking  from  the  vew  of  covetous  guest, 

That  the  weake  boughes  with  so  rich  load  opprest 


*  Forsook.  t  Mastering.  "<  Emeralds. 


608  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Did  bow  adowne  as  overburdened. 
Under  that  porch  a  comely  Dame  did  rest 
Clad  in  fayre  weedes*  but  fowle  disordered, 
And  garments  loose  that  seemd  unmeet  for  womanhood: 

In  her  left  hand  a  cup  of  gold  she  held, 
And  with  her  right  the  riper  fruit  did  reach, 
Whose  sappy  liquor,  that  with  fulnesse  sweld, 
Into  her  cup  she  scruzdf  with  daintie  breach 
Of  her  fine  fingers,  without  fowle  empeach,^ 
That  so  faire  winepresse  made  the  wine  more  sweet: 
Thereof  she  usd  to  give  to  drinke  to  each, 
Whom,  passing  by  she  happened  to  meet: 
It  was  her  guise  all  straungers  goodly  so  to  greet. 

So  she  to  Guy  on  offred  it  to  tast; 
Who,  taking  it  out  of  her  tender  hond,§ 
The  cup  to  ground  did  violently  cast, 
That  all  in  peeces  it  was  broken  fond,|| 
And  with  the  liquor  stained  all  the  lond:1[ 
Whereat  Excesse  exceedinly  was  wroth, 
Yet  no'  te**  the  same  amend,  ne  yet  withstond, 
But  suffered  him  to  passe,  all  were  she  loth ; 
Who,  nought  regarding  her  displeasure,  forward  goth. 

There  the  most  daintie  paradise  on  ground 
Itseife  doth  offer  to  his  sober  eye, 
In  which  all  pleasures  plenteously  abownd, 
And  none  does  others  happinesse  envye ; 
The  painted  flowres ;  the  trees  upshooting  hye ; 
The  dales  for  shade ;  the  Miles  for  breathing  space ; 
The  trembling  groves;  the  christall  running  by; 
And,  that  which  all  faire  workes  doth  most  aggrace, 
The  art,  which  all  that  wrought,  appeared  in  no  place. 

And  in  the  midst  of  all  a  fountaine  stood, 
Of  richest  substance  that  on  earth  might  bee, 
So  pure  and  shiny  that  the  silver  flood 
Through  every  channell  running  one  might  see ; 
Most  goodly  it  with  curious  ymageree 
Was  overwrought,  and  shapes  of  naked  boyes, 
Of  which  some  seemd  with  lively  iollitee 
To  fly  about  playing  their  wanton  toyes,ff 
Whylest  others  did  themselves  embay  in  liquid  ioyes. 

*  Clothes.          f  Squeezed.          J  Injury.          g  Hand.  ||  Found. 

fl  Land  or  ground.  **  Could  not.  ft  Sports. 


SPENSER.  609 


All  over  all  of  purest  gold  was  spred 
A  trayle  of  y vie  in  his  native  hew ; 
For  the  rich  metall  was  so  coloured, 
That  wight,  who  did  not  well  avis'd  it  vew, 
Would  surely  deeme  it  to  bee  yvie  trew : 
Low  his  lascivious  armes  adown  did  creepe, 
That  themselves  dipping  in  the  silver  dew 
Their  fleecy  flowres  they  fearefully  did  steepe, 
Which  drops  of  christall  seemd  for  wantones  to  weep. 

Infinit  streames  continually  did  well 
Out  of  the  fountaine,  sweet  and  faire  to  see, 
The  which  into  an  ample  laver  fell, 
And  shortly  grew  to  so  great  quantitie, 
That  like  a  little  lake  it  seemd  to  bee; 
Whose  depth  exceeded  not  three  cubits  hight, 
That  through  the  waves  one  might  the  bottom  see, 
All  pav'd  beneath  with  jaspar  shining  bright, 
That  seemd  the  fountaine  in  that  sea  did  sayle  upright. 

Eftsoones*  they  heard  a  most  melodious  sound, 
Of  all  that  mote  delight  a  daintie  eare, 
Such  as  attonee  might  not  on  living  ground, 
Save  in  this  paradise,  be  heard  elsewhere : 
Right  hard  it  was  for  wight  which  did  it  heare, 
To  read  f  what  manner  musicke  that  mote  bee ; 
For  all  that  pleasing  is  to  living  eare 
Was  there  consorted  in  one  harmonee ; 
Birdes,  voices,  instruments,  windes,  waters,  all  agree : 

The  ioyous  birdes,  shrouded  in  chearefull  shade, 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempred  sweet; 
Th'  angelicall  soft  trembling  voyces  made 
To  th'  instruments  divine  respondence  meet ; 
The  silver-sounding  instruments  did  meet 
With  the  base  murmure  of  the  waters  fall; 
The  waters  fall  with  difference  discreet, 
Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call ; 
The  gentle  warbling  wind  low  answered  to  all. 

The  whiles  some  one  did  chaunt  this  lovely  lay; 
Ah  !  see,  whoso  fayre,  thing  doest  faine  to  see, 
In  springing  flowre  the  image  of  thy  day ! 
Ah  !  see  the  virgin  rose,  how  sweetly  she 
Doth  first  pefpe  foorth  with  bashfull  modestee, 

*  Immediately  t  Explain. 

2O 


610  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


That  fairer  seemes  the  lesse  ye  see  her  may ! 
Lo !  see  soone  after  how  more  bold  and  free 
Her  bared  bosome  she  doth  broad  display; 
Lo !  see  soone  after  how  she  fades  and  falls  away! 

So  passeth,  in  the  passing  of  a  day, 
Of  mortall  life  the  leafe,  the  bud,  the  flowre; 
Ne  more  doth  florish  after  first  decay, 
That  earst  was  sought  to  deck  both  bed  and  bowre 
Of  many  a  lady,  and  many  a  paramowre  ! 
Gather  therefore  the  rose  whilest  yet  is  prime, 
For  soone  comes  age  that  will  her  pride  deflowre: 
Gather  the  rose  of  love  whilest  yet  is  time, 
Whilest  loving  thou  mayst  loved  be  with  equall  crime* 

Lastly  we  present  a  portrait  of  Diana,  from  Book  II.,  Canto  III. 

Her  face  so  faire,  as  flesh  it  seemed  not, 
But  hevenly  pourtraict  of  bright  angels  hew, 
Cleare  as  the  skye,  withouten  blame  or  blot, 
Through  goodly  mixture  of  complexions  dew; 
And  in  her  cheekes  the  vermeill  red  did  shew 
Like  roses  in  a  bed  of  lillies  shed, 
The  which  ambrosiall  odours  from  them  threw, 
And  gazers  sence  with  double  pleasure  fed, 
Hable  to  heale  the  sicke  and  to  revive  the  ded. 

In  her  faire  eyes  two  living  lamps  did  flame, 
Kindled  above  at  th'  Hevenly  Makers  light, 
And  darted  fyrie  beames  out  of  the  same, 
So  passing  persant,f  and  so  wondrous  bright, 
That  quite  bereav'd  the  rash  beholders  sight: 
In  them  the  blinded  god  his  lustfull  fyre 
To  kindle  oft  assayd,  but  had  no  might ; 
For,  with  dredd  maiestie  and  awfull  yre, 
She  broke  his  wanton  darts,  and  quenched  bace  desyre. 

Her  yvorie  forhead,  full  of  bountie  brave, 
Like  a  broad  table  did  itselfe  dispred, 
For  Love  his  loftie  triumphes  to  engrave, 
And  write  the  battailes  of  his  great  godhed: 
All  good  and  honour  might  therein  be  red; 
For  there  their  dwelling  was.    And,  when  she  spake, 
Sweete  wordes,  like  dropping  honny,  she  did  shed ; 
And  twixt  the  perles  and  rubins  softly  brake 
A  silver  sound,  that  heavenly  musicke  seemd  to  make. 


*  To  an  equal  degree.  t  Piercing 


SPENSER.  611 


Upon  her  eyelids  many  Graces  sate, 
Under  the  shadow  of  her  even  browes, 
Working  belgardes*  and  amorous  retrate;f 
And  everie  one  her  with  a  grace  endowes, 
And  everie  one  with  meekenesse  to  her  bowes: 
So  glorious  mirrhour  of  celestiall  grace, 
And  soveraine  moniment  of  mortall  vowes, 
How  shall  frayle  pen  descrive  her  heavenly  face, 
For  feare,  through  want  of  skill,  her  beauty  to  disgrace ! 

So  faire,  and  thousand  thousand  times  more  faire, 
She  seemed,  when  she  presented  was  to  sight ; 
And  was  yclad,  for  heat  of  scorching  aire, 
All  in  a  silken  camusj  lilly  whight, 
Purfled$  upon  with  many  a  folded  plight,|| 
Which  all  above  besprinckled  was  throughout 
With  golden  aygulets,^  that  glistred  bright 
Like  twinckling  starres;  and  all  the  skirt  about 
Was  hemd  with  golden  fringe. 

Below  her  ham  her  weed**  did  somewhat  trayne, 
And  her  streight  legs  most  bravely  were  embay  Id  ft 
In  gilden  buskins  of  costly  cordwayne,tt 
All  bard  with  golden  bendes,  which  were  entayld^ 
With  curious  antickes,  and  full  fayre  aurnayld:|||| 
Before,  they  fastned  were  under  her  knee 
In  a  rich  iewell,  and  therein  entrayldflfl 
The  ends  of  all  the  knots,  that  none  might  see 
How  they  within  their  fouldings  close  enwrapped  bee : 

Like  two  faire  marble  pillours  they  were  scene, 
Which  doe  the  temple  of  the  gods  support, 
Whom  all  the  people  decke  with  girlands  greene, 
And  honour  in  their  festivall  resort; 
Those  same  with  stately  grace  and  princely  port 
She  taught  to  tread,  when  she  herselfe  would  grace ; 
But  with  the  woody  nymphes  when  she  did  play. 
Or  when  the  flying  libbard***  she  did  chace, 
She  could  them  nimbly  move,  and  after  fly  apace. 

And  in  her  hand  a  sharp  bore-speare  she  held, 
And  at  her  backe  a  bow  and  quiver  gay, 
Stuft  with  steel-headed  dartes  wherewith  she  queld 
The  salvage  beastes  in  her  victorious  play, 

*  Sweet  looks.        f  Picture.         J  Thin  dress.        §  Embroidered.        1  Plait. 
1[  Tagged  Points.  **  Dress.  ft  Bound  up.          Jt  Spanish  leather. 

\l  Carved.  ||||  Enamelled.  ffl  Twisted.  ***  Leopard. 


612  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Knit  with  a  golden  bauldricke  which  forelay 
Athwart  her  snowy  brest,  and  did  divide 
Her  daintie  paps;   which,  like  young  fruit  in  May, 
Now  little  gan  to  swell,  and  being  tide 
Through  her  thin  weed  their  places  only  signifide. 

Her  yellow  lockes,  crisped  like  golden  wyre, 
About  her  shoulders  weren  loosely  shed, 
And,  when  the  winde  emongst  them  did  inspyre,* 
They  waved  like  a  penon  wyde  dispred, 
And  low  behinde  her  backe  were  scattered: 
And,  whether  art  it  were  or  heedlesse  hap, 
As  through  the  flouring  forrest  rash  she  fled, 
In  her  rude  heares  sweet  flowres  themselves  did  lap, 
And  flourishing  fresh  leaves  and  blossomes  did  enwrap. 

What  Joseph  was  contemptuously  regarded  by  his  brethren,  that 
Spenser  must  be  proudly  esteemed  among  his  brothers  of  English 
poetry — the  dreamer.  His  nature  instinctively  and  habitually 
recoiled  from  contact  with  the  hard  actual,  the  sordid  present,  but 
lived  and  revelled  within  the  fairy  precincts  of  the  ideal,  or  among 
the  fascinating  spectres  of  the  past.  His  genius  found  its  proper 
aliment  in  the  fields  of  classic  fable  and  mediaeval  chivalry.  Into 
the  latter  the  great  Italian  poets,  Ariosto  and  Tasso,  had  preceded 
him,  and  had  used  much  of  the  same  materials  which  he  after- 
wards employed;  but  Spenser's  handling  of  these  materials  was 
characterized  by  a  heartiness  and  sincerity  peculiarly  his  own.  In 
the  principles  and  sentiments  with  which  he  inspires  his  gallant 
knights  and  lovely  ladies,  and  in  their  virtuous  achievements  and 
conduct,  we  recognize  him  as  a  thoroughly  Christian  poet — a  Bun- 
yan  in  verse;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  in  the  sensibility  to  and  lust 
for  the  sensuous  which  equally  characterize  his  heroes  and  heroines, 
— in  the  frequent  references  had  to  the  old  Greek  deities — in  the 
introduction  of  nymphs,  dryads,  fauns,  and  satyrs,  and  in  the 
employment  of  giants,  monsters,  witches,  and  enchanted  castles, 
we  quite  as  readily  recognize  a  thoroughly  pagan  poet — a  very 
Hesiod  of  ancient  myth.  In  Spenser,  however,  the  two  do  not 
conflict,  but,  through  his  most  masterly  skill  at  picturesque  inven- 
tion, are  made  sweetly  to  coalesce,  and  so  to  heighten  the  general 
effect.  Spenser  is  preeminent,  too,  for  the  beauty,  the  harmony, 
and  the  pathos  of  his  language,  and  for  the  exhaustless  command 
and  rare  fitness  of  his  imagery.  As  a  word-painter  he  has  been 
most  aptly  styled  the  Kubens  of  English  poetry. 

*  Breathe. 


GEOFFREY    CHAUCER. 


He  is  the  poet  of  the  dawn,  who  wrote 
The  Canterbury  Tales,  and  his  old  age 
Made  beautiful  with  song ;  and  as  I  read 

I  hear  the  crowing  cock,  1  hear  the  note, 
Of  lark  and  linnet,  and  from  every  page 
Rise  odors  of  ploughed  field  or  flowery  mead. 

LONGFELLOW. 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  was  born  in  London,  probably  in  the  year 
1328,  of  respectable,  though  not  of  noble  parents.  The  first 
thirty  years  of  his  life  are  involved  in  almost  total  obscurity — 
the  rumor  that  he  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  its  opposing  one 
that  Oxford  is  entitled  to  that  honor,  and  the  gracious  compro- 
mise that  each  university  in  turn  shared  the  distinction,  being 
the  only  matter  of  interest  assigned  to  this  interval. 

Not  until  the  year  1359  do  we  encounter  the  first  tolerably- 
well  authenticated  act  of  Chaucer's  life — his  military  service 
under  Edward  III.,  during  that  monarch's  celebrated  invasion 
of  France.  Our  poet  was  taken  prisoner  in  the  expedition,  and, 
whether  as  captive  or  fugitive,  it  is  uncertain  how  he  passed 
the  next  few  years.  In  1366,  however,  we  find  him  returned 
to  England,  and  connected  by  marriage  with  John  of  Gaunt, 
Duke  of  Lancaster.  From  this  time  forward,  with  slight  inter- 
ruptions, royal  confidences  and  pensions  were  bestowed  upon 
him  in  no  small  measure. 

Chaucer  was  several  times  dispatched  abroad  on  embassies  of 
great  political  moment,  during  one  of  which,  in  1373, — our  poet 
being,  during  the  summer  of  that  year,  at  Florence, — he  is  pre- 
sumed to  have  seen  and  to  have  conversed  with  the  eminent 
Italian  poet,  Petrarch.  However  this  may  be,  that  Chaucer 
was  intimately  acquainted  with  the  poet  Gower  is  certain,  both 
from  the  fact  of  his  having  made  the  latter  trustee  of  his  private 
affairs  during  an  embassy  to  Lombardy,  and  from  their  well- 
known  interchanges  of  poetical  compliments. 

52  Cli 


614  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Not  to  mention  divers  grants  and  pensions  bestowed  during 
the  eight  years  preceding,  Chaucer  was,  in  1382,  appointed 
Comptroller  of  Petty  Customs  in  the  Port  of  London.  But  four 
years  later,  in  consequence  of  the  absence  from  England  of  his 
powerful  friend  and  relative,  the  Duke  of  Lancaster,  and  the 
presence  at  the  head  of  government  of  the  latter's  enemy,  the 
Duke  of  Gloucester,  Chaucer  was  stripped,  during  the  next 
three  years,  of  his  office.  Still  he  did  not,  as  has  been  asserted, 
fly  the  country,  neither  was  he  imprisoned  in  the  Tower ;  but 
remained  during  the  whole  period  of  his  disgrace  in  London, 
not  only  unmolested  by  rivals,  but  even  in  the  enjoyment  of 
his  usual  pension.  Indeed,  it  was  in  the  very  year  of  his  depo- 
sition from  office  that  he  was  elected  a  knight  of  the  shire  for 
Kent. 

A  change  in  government  affairs  in  1389  again  brought  Chau- 
cer into  court  favor,  and  he  was  made  successively  Clerk  of  the 
King's  Works  at  Westminster,  and  at  Windsor.  After  a  year's 
service  in  each  of  these  offices  he  was,  for  some  unknown  cause, 
superseded,  and  for  the  remainder  of  his  life  had  to  rely  for 
support  upon  the  revenue  of  his  various  grants  and  pensions. 
But  this  proved  wholly  inadequate  not  only  for  meeting  the 
demands  of  one  of  his  elevated  position,  but  even  for  providing 
the  comforts  of  a  modest  privacy.  Only  a  short  time  before  his 
death,  this  veteran  courtier,  this  able  ambassador,  this  life-long 
and  favorite  poet,  was  compelled  to  apply  at  the  Exchequer  in 
person  for  the  petty  loan  of  6s.  8c?.,.and  to  seek  of  the  King 
letters  of  protection  from  arrest.  This  misery,  however,  was 
mitigated  in  1399,  by  a  liberal  pension  from  Henry  IV.,  son  of 
his  deceased  friend,  the  Duke  of  Lancaster.  It  came  none  too 
soon  ;  for  on  October  25,  1400,  Chaucer  died  in  London.  Three 
days  later  he  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey — "  the  first  of 
that  illustrious  series  of  poets  who  were  subsequently  to  repose 
beside  him,  and  were  not  ashamed  to  call  him  '  Father.'  ' 

Wherever  pursued,  Chaucer's  education  was  as  good  a  one  as 
the  times  afforded,  embracing  an  acquaintance  with  the  classics 
of  Rome  and  Palestine,  and  the  current  crudities  of  science. 
Then,  by  nature,  his  tastes  were  of  the  most  catholic  sort,  and 
they  were  ministered  to,  as  we  have  seen,  by  a  life  of  cosmo- 
politan span. 


CHAUCER.  615 


He  began  to  write  at  an  early  age,  and  zealously  cherished 
the  employ  even  to  the  end  of  his  long  life.  His  first  efforts 
were  doubtless  imitative,  The  Eomaunt  of  the  Ease,  for  exam- 
ple, being  a  literal  translation  into  English  of  an  early  French 
poem.  More  original,  but  still  largely  borrowed  in  incident 
and  sentiment,  were  the  allegorical  poems,  The  Court  of  Love, 
The  Assembly  of  Foules,  The  Cuckow  and  the  Nightingale,  The 
Ftoure  and  the  Leaf,  and  The  Complaint  of  Pile.  These  produc- 
tions, and  Troilus  and  Creseide,  if  they  did  not  all  engage  his 
earlier  efforts,  certainly  reflect  Chaucer's  earlier  taste — his 
love  for  the  fantasies  of  classical  and  Provencal  bards,  while 
The  BooJce  of  the  Duchesse,  The  Legende  of  Good  Women,  The 
House  of  Fame,  and  The  Canterbury  Tales,  are  the  fruits  of  his 
maturer  and  more  original  genius. 

"  During  the  fourteenth  century,  language,  like  thought,  was  in 
a  state  of  transition.  After  a  long  and  bitter  struggle  between  the 
Norman-French  and  the  Saxon,  the  obstinate  vigor  of  the  native 
tongue  began  to  prevail,  and  to  assert  its  supremacy  over  the  pol- 
ished but  less  vigorous  French.  In  so  great  a  state  of  confusion 
was  the  language,  that  'moral'  Gower,  Chaucer's  friend,  uncertain 
which  dialect  would  ultimately  triumph  and  be  the  language  of 
future  England,  solved  the  difficulty  by  writing  in  French,  Latin, 
and  Saxon.  Chaucer,  with  a  happier  instinct,  chose  the  last 
exclusively,  and  helped  by  his  writings  to  bring  about  the  realiza- 
tion of  his  hopes.  He  wrote  in  the  common  dialect  of  the  upper 
middle  classes,  which  was  not  pure  Saxon,  but  a  combination  of 
three-fifths  Saxon  and  two-fifths  French  and  Latin. 

"  Chaucer's  compositions,  therefore,  are  marked  by  a  large 
admixture  of  foreign  words  and  phrases,  and  especially  by  the 
influence  of  accentuation.  The  Tales  seem  much  more  difficult  to 
read  than  they  really  are.  We  shall  give  our  readers  one  golden 
rule,  by  attending  to  which  they  will  have  little  difficulty  in  read- 
ing Chaucer,  viz. : — Pronounce  the  final  e  whenever  the  metre 
demands  it,  and  the  final  syllable  in  all  words  of  French  origin,  as 
e.  g.  in  corage,  visage,  honour,  clamour,  manie'r.  Bear  in  mind, 
also,  that  the  strangeness  of  three  fourths  of  the  words  results 
from  the  antiquated  way  in  which  they  are  spelled,  and  that  when 
deprived  of  an  e  or  an  n,  or  otherwise  slightly  altered,  they  become 
familiar."* 

As  exhibiting  his  peculiarities  of  style,  and  his  felicities  of  con- 

*  Westminster  Review,  Oct.,  1871. 


616  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


ception  in  their  highest  perfection,  we  invite  the  student  to  Chau- 
cer's master  work,  the  Canterbury  Tales — a  work  begun  and  com- 
pleted when  our  poet  was  old,  and  for  the  most  part  poor  and 
desolate.  The  plot  of  the  poem  is  thought  to  have  been  taken 
from  the  "Decameron"  of  Boccaccio.  Our  poet  relates  in  "The 
Prologue"  how  that 

In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard*  as  I  lay, 
Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrimage 
To  Canterbury  with  devoute  corage, 
At  night  was  come  into  that  hostelrie 
Wei  nine  and  twenty  in  a  compagnie 
Of  sondry  folk,  by  aventure  yfalle  f 
In  felawship,  and  pilgrimes  were  they  alle, 
That  toward  Canterbury  wolden  ride. 

It  was  proposed  that  each  of  the  "  compagnie  "  should  relate  two 
tales  while  going  on  the  pilgrimage,  and  two  while  returning,  and 
that,  in  the  end,  he  who  should  be  declared  as  having  related  the 
most  satisfactory  one,  should  sup  at  the  common  cost.  This  first 
design,  however,  was  not  carried  out.  The  pilgrims  do  not  arrive 
at  the  shrine,  and  only  twenty-five  of  the  proposed  number  of  tales 
remain  to  us.  But  these  sufficiently  reveal  the  varied  composition 
of  the  company,  being  related  severally  by  the  Knight,  the  Miller, 
the  Keve,  the  Coke,  the  Man  of  Lawe,  the  Wif  of  Bath,  the  Frere, 
the  Sompnour,  the  Clerk,  the  Marchant,  the  Squier,  the  Franke- 
lein,  the  Doctour,  the  Pardoner,  the  Shipman,  the  Prioresse,  the 
Monk,  the  Normes  Preest,  the  Chanones  Yeman,  the  Manciple, 
and  the  Person. 

"  Each  tale  is  suited  to  the  teller :  the  young  squire  relates  a 
fantastic  and  Oriental  history;  the  tipsy  miller  a  loose  and  comi- 
cal story ;  the  honest  clerk  the  touching  legend  of  Griselda.  All 
these  tales  are  bound  together,  and  that  much  better  than  by  Boc- 
caccio, by  little  veritable  incidents,  which  spring  from  the  charac- 
ters of  the  personages,  and  such  as  we  light  upon  in  our  travels. 
The  horsemen  ride  on  in  good  humor  in  the  sunshine,  in  the  open 
country;  they  converse.  The  miller  has  drunk  too  much  ale,  and 
will  speak,  'arid  for  no  man  forbere.'  The  cook  goes  to  sleep  on 
his  beast,  and  they  play  practical  jokes  on  him.  The  monk  and 
the  summoner  get  up  a  dispute  about  their  respective  lines  of 
business.  The  host  [the  landlord  of  the  Inn,  who  accompanied 
the  pilgrims]  restores  peace,  makes  them  speak  or  be  silent,  like  a 
man  who  has  long  presided  in  the  inn  parlor,  and  who  has  often 
had  to  check  brawlers. 

*  The  Tabard  Inn.  t  Fallen. 


CHAUCER.  01 


"They  pass  judgment  on  the  stories  they  listen  to:  declaring 
that  there  are  few  Griseldas  in  the  world ;  laughing  at  the  misad- 
ventures of  the  tricked  carpenter;  drawing  a  lesson  from  the 
moral  tale.  The  poem  is  no  longer,  as  in  contemporary  litera- 
ture, a  mere  procession,  but  a  painting  in  which  the  contrasts  are 
arranged,  the  attitudes  chosen,  the  general  effect  calculated,  so 
that  life  is  invigorated;  we  forget  ourselves  at  the  sight,  as  in  the 
case  of  every  life-like  work ;  and  we  conceive  the  desire  to  get  on 
horseback  on  a  fine  sunny  morning,  and  canter  along  green 
meadows  with  the  pilgrims  to  the  shrine  of  the  good  saint  uf 
Canterbury."* 

Let  us  first  listen  to  a  portion  of  the  "  Knightes  Tale" — the  pass- 
age wherein  is  described  the  contest  between  Palamon  and  Arcite, 
with  their  hundred  knights  each,  in  the  presence  of  king  Theseus, 
for  the  hand  of  Emelie,  the  queen's  "yonge  sister  shene." 

Whan  set  was  Theseus  ml  rich  and  hie, 
Ipolita  the  quene,  and  Emelie, 
And  other  ladies  in  degrees  aboute, 
Unto  the  setes  preseth  all  the  route. 
And  westward,  thurgh  the  gates  under  Mart, 
Arcite,  and  eke  the  hundred  of  his  part, 
With  baner  red,  is  entred  right  anon ; 
And  in  the  selve  moment  Palamon 
Is,  under  Venus,  estward  in  the  place, 
With  baner  white,  and  hardy  chere  and  face. 
In  all  the  world,  to  seken  up  and  down, 
So  even  without  variatioun 
Ther  n'ere  swiche  compagnies  never  twey. 
For  ther  was  non  so  wise  that  coude  sey, 
That  any  hadde  of  other  avantage 
Of  worthinesse,  ne  of  estat,  ne  age, 
So  even  were  they  chosen  for  to  gesse. 
And  in  two  renges  fay  re  they  hem  dresse. 
Whan  that  hirf  names  red  were  everichj  on, 
That  in  hirf  nombre  gileg  were  ther  non, 
Tho  were  the  gates  shette,  and  cried  was  loude ; 
Do  now  your  devoir,  yonge  knightes  proude. 

The  heraudes||  left  hirf  prikingfi  up  and  doun. 
Now  ringen  trompes  loud  and  clarioun. 
Ther  is  no  more  to  say,  but  est  and 
In  gon  the  speres  sadly  in  the  rest ; 


*  Taine's  English  Literature.  1 1  heir.  J  Every. 

§  Error.  I  Heralds.  •  Riding, 

52* 


618  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


In  goth  the  sharpe  spore*  into  the  side. 

Ther  see  men  who  can  juste,  f  and  who  can  ride. 

Ther  shiveren  shaftes  upon  sheldes  J  thicke ; 

He  feleth  thurgh  the  herte-sponeg  the  pricke 

Up  springen  speres  twenty  foot  on  highte ; 

Out  gon  the  swerdes  as  the  silver  brighte. 

The  helmes  they  to-heweii  and  to-shrede ; 

Out  brest  the  blod,  with  sterne  ||  stremes  rede. 

With  mighty  maces  the  bones  they  to-breste.  fl 

He  thurgh  the  thickest  of  the  throng  gan  threste. 

Ther  stomblen  stedes  strong,  and  doun  goth  all. 

He  rolleth  under  foot  as  doth  a  ball. 

He  foineth  on  his  foo  with  a  tronchoun, 

And  he  him  hurtleth  with  his  hors  adoun ; 

He  thurgh  the  body  is  hurt,  and  sith  **  ytake 

Maugre  his  lied,  and  brought  unto  the  stake, 

As  forword  was,  right  ther  he  must  abide. 

Another  lad  is  on  that  other  side. 

And  sometime  doth  hemff  Theseus  to  rest, 

Hem  ff  to  refresh,  and  drinken  if  hem  ff  lest. 

Ful  oft  a  day  han  thilke  Thebanes  two 
Togeder  met,  and  wrought  eche  other  wo  : 
Unhorsed  hath  eche  other  of  hem  twey. 
Ther  n'as  no  tigre  in  the  vale  of  Galaphey, 
Whan  that  hire  whelpe  is  stole,  whan  is  it  lite,J| 
So  cruel  on  the  hunt,  as  is  Arcite 
For  jaious  hertegg  upon  this  Palamon: 
Ne  in  Belmarie  ther  n' is  so  fell  leon, 
That  hunted  is,  or  for  his  hunger  wood,[||| 
Ne  of  his  prey  desireth  so  the  blood, 
As  Palamon  to  sleen^  his  foo  Arcite. 
The  jaious  strokes  on  his  helmes  bite ; 
Gut***  renneth  blood  on  both  his  sides  rede. 

Somtime  an  ende  ther  is  of  every  dede. 
For  er  the  sonne  unto  the  reste  went, 
The  stronge  king  Emetrius  gan  hentftf 
This  Palamon,  as  he  fought  with  Arcite, 
And  made  his  swerd  depe  in  his  flesh  to  bite. 
And  by  the  force  of  twenty  is  he  take 
Unyolden,];+J  and  ydrawen  to  the  stake. 
And  in  the  rescous§$|  of  this  Palamon 


*  Spur.  t  Joust.  J  Shields.          §  Concave  part  of  the  breast. 

I!  Cruel.  If  Burst.  **  Therefore  taken.  ft  Them. 

8  Little.  §§  Heart.  III!  Mud.  1TO  Slay.        ***  Out. 

tft  Caught  hold  of.  £g  Unyielding.  ft$  Rescue. 


CHAUCER.  619 


The  stronge  king  Licurge  is  borne  adoun: 
And  king  Emetrius  for  all  his  strengthe 
Is  borne  out  of  his  sadel  a  swerdes  lengthe, 
So  hitte  him  Palamon  or  *  he  were  take  : 
But  all  for  nought,  he  was  brought  to  the  stake : 
His  hardy  herte  might  him  helpen  naught, 
He  moste  f  abiden,  whan  that  he  was  caught, 
By  force,  and  eke  by  composition.  J 

Who  sorweth  now  but  woful  Palamon  ? 
That  moste  f  no  more  gon  again  to  fight. 
And  whan  that  Theseus  had  seen  that  fight, 
Unto  the  folk  that  foughten  thus  eche  on,g 
He  cried,  ho !  no  more,  for  it  is  don. 
I  wol  be  trewe  juge,  and  not  partie. 
Arcite  of  Thebes  shal  have  Emelie, 
That  by  his  fortune  hath  hire  fay  re  ywonne.fj 

Anon  ther  is  a  noise  of  peple  begonne^f 
For  joye  of  this,  so  loud  and  high  withall, 
It  semed  that  the'listes  shulden  fall. 

The  Miller  shall  next  discover  to  us  his  modern  prophet — 
one  "  hendy  Nicholas,"  a  "  poure  scoler,"  or  clerk,  and  his 
modern  Noah, — one  John,  a  carpenter,  as  they  discuss  the  prep- 
arations for  a  second  deluge. 

Now,  John  (quod  Nicholas)  I  wol  not  lie, 
I  have  yfounde  in  min  astrologie, 
As  I  have  loked  in  the  moone  bright, 
That  now  on  Monday  next,  at  quarter  night, 
Shal  fall  a  rain,  and  that  so  wild  and  wood** 
That  half  so  gret  was  never  Noes  flood. 
This  world  (he  said)  in  less  than  in  an  houre 
Shal  al  be  dreint,ff  so  hidous  is  the  shoure: 
Thus  shall  mankinde  drenche,  and  lese£J  hir  lif. 

This  carpenter  answerd;  Alas  my  wif! 
And  shal  she  drenche  ?  alas  min  Alisoun ! 
For  sorwe  of  this  he  fell  almost  adoun, 
And  said,  Is  ther  no  remedy  in  this  cas? 

Why  yes,  for  God,  quod  hendy  %$  Nicholas, 
If  thou  wolt  werken  after  lore||||  and  rede; 
Thou  maist  not  werken  after  thin  owen  hede. 


*  E'er.  t  Must.  t  Agreement.  t  Each  other. 

|  Won.  «|[  Begun.  **  Raging.  ft  Drenched. 

#Lose.  II  Courteous.         !i  Advice. 


620  MANUAL    OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

For  thus  saith  Salomon,  that  was  ful  trewe ; 
Werke  all  by  conseil,  and  thou  shalt  not  rewe. 
And  if  thou  werken  wolt  by  good  conseil, 
I  undertake,  withouten  mast  or  seyl,* 
Yet  shal  I  saven  hire,  and  thee  and  me. 
Hast  thou  not  herd  how  saved  was  Noe, 
Whan  that  our  Lord  had  warned  him  beforne, 
That  al  the  world  with  water  should  be  lorne? 

Yes,  (quod  this  carpenter)  ful  yore  ago. 

Hast  thou  not  herd  (quod  Nicholas)  also 
The  sorwe  of  Noe  with  his  felawship, 
Or  that  he  might  get  his  wif  to  ship? 
Him  had  he  lever,  I  dare  wel  undertake, 
At  thilke  time,  than  all  his  wethers  blake,f 
That  she  had  had  a  ship  hireself  alone. 
And  therefore  wost  thou  what  is  best  to  done? 
This  axeth  hast,J  and  of  an  hastif  thing 
Men  may  not  preche  and  maken  tarying. 
Anon  go  get  us  fast  into  this  in 
A  kneding  trough  or  elles  a  kemelyn,§ 
For  eche  of  us;  but  loke  that  they  ben  large, 
In  which  we  mowen  swimme  as  in  a  barge : 
And  have  therin  vitaille  suffisant|| 
But  for  a  day ;  fie  on  the  remenant ; 
The  water  shall  aslake  and  gon  away 
Abouten  prime  upon  the  nexte  day. 
But  Robin  may  not  wete  of  this,  thy  knave, 
Ne  eke  thy  may  den  Gille  I  may  not  save : 
Axe  not  why :   for  though  thou  axe  me, 
I  wol  not  tellen  Goddes  privatee. 
Sufficeth  thee,  but  if  thy  wittes  madde, 
To  have  as  gret  a  grace  as  Noe  hadde. 
Thy  wif  shal  I  wel  saven  out  of  doute. 
Go  now  thy  way,  and  spede  thee  hereaboute. 

But  whan  thou  hast  for  hire,  and  thee,  and  me 
Ygeten  us  these  kneding  tubbes  thre, 
Than  shalt  thou  hang  hem  in  the  roofe  ful  hie, 
That  no  man  of  our  purveyance  espie: 
And  whan  thou  hast  done  thus  as  I  have  said, 
And  hast  our  vitaille  faire  in  hem  ylaid, 
And  eke  an  axe  to  smite  the  cord  a-two 
Whan  that  the  water  cometh,  that  we  may  go, 
And  breke  an  hole  on  high  upon  the  gable 
Unto  the  gardin  ward,  over  the  stable, 


*  Sail.  f  Black.  J  Requireth  haste.  g  Tub. 

!:  Victuals  sufficient. 


CHAUCER.  621 


That  we  may  frely  passen  forth  our  way, 
Whan  that  the  grete  shoure  is  gon  away. 
Than  shal  thou  swim  as  mery,  I  undertake, 
As  doth  the  white  doke*  after  hire  drake: 
Than  wol  I  clepe,f  How  Alison,  how  John, 
Be  mery :  for  the  flood  wol  passe  anon. 
And  thou  wolt  sain,  Haile  maister  Nicholay, 
Good  morwe,  I  see  thee  wel,  for  it  is  day. 
And  than  shal  we  be  lordes  all  our  lif 
Of  all  the  world,  as  Noe  and  his  wif. 
But  of  o  thing  I  warne  thee  ful  right, 
Be  wel  avised  on  that  ilke  night, 
That  we  ben  entred  into  shippes  bord, 
That  non  of  us  ne  speke  not  o  word, 
Ne  clepe  f  ne  crie,  but  be  in  his  praiere,t 
For  it  is  Goddes  owen  hesteg  dere. 

This  ordinance  is  said :  go,  God  thee  spede. 
To-morwe  at  night,  whan  men  ben  all  aslepe, 
Into  our  kneding  tubbes  wol  we  crepe, 
And  sitten  ther,  abiding  Goddes  grace. 
Go  now  thy  way,  I  have  no  lenger  space 
To  make  of  this  no  lenger  sermoning: 
Men  sain  thus :  send  the  wise,  and  say  nothing : 
Thou  art  so  wise,  it  nedeth  thee  nought  teche. 
Go,  save  our  lives,  and  that  I  thee  beseche, 

"  Sire  Clerk  of  Oxenforde  "  shall  next  introduce  us  to  the 
hero  and  heroine  of  his  most  touching  tale — Walter,  a  noble 
marquis,  and  Grisilde,  a  peasant  maid,  in  the  earliest  and 
cheeriest  episode  of  their  wonderful  career. 

Nought  fer  fro  thilke  paleis  honourable, 
Wher  as  this  markis  shope||  his  mariage, 
Ther  stood  a  thorpe,1[  of  sighte  delitable, 
In  which  that  poure  folk  of  that  village 
Hadden  hir  bestes  and  hir  herbergage,** 
And  of  hir  labour  take  hir  sustenance, 
After  that  the  erthe  yave  hem  habundance. 

Among  this  poure  folk  ther  dwelt  a  man, 
Which  that  was  holden  pourest  of  hem  all ; 
But  highe  God  sometime  senden  can 

*Duck.  f  Shout.  J  Prayer.  §  Precious  command. 

II  Prepared.  r  Village.  **  Dwelling. 


622  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

His  grace  unto  a  litel  oxes  stall  : 
Janicola  men  of  that  thorpe*  him  call. 
A  doughter  had  he,  faire  ynough  to  sight, 
And  Grisildis  this  yonge  maiden  hight. 

But  for  to  speke  of  vertuous  beautee, 
Than  was  she  on  the  fairest  under  sonne: 
Ful  pourely  yfostred  up  was  she: 
No  likerousf  lust  was  in  hire  herte  yronne;J 
Well  ofter  of  the  well  than  of  the  tonne  § 
She  dranke,  and  for  she  wolde  vertue  plese, 
She  knew  wel  labour,  but  non  idel  ese. 

But  though  this  mayden  tendre  were  of  age, 
Yet  in  the  brest  of  hire  virginitee 
Ther  was  enclosed  sad  and  ripe  corage: 
And  in  gret  reverence  and  charitee 
Hire  olde  poure  fader  fostred  she: 
A  few  sheep  spinning  on  the  feld  she  kept, 
She  wolde  not  ben  idel  til  she  slept. 

And  whan  she  homward  came,  she  wolde  bring 
Wortes||  and  other  herbes  times  oft, 
The  which  she  shred  and  sethe  for  hire  living, 
And  made  hire  bed  ful  hard,  and  nothing  soft : 
And  ay  she  kept  hire  fadres  lif  on  loftf 
With  every  obeisance  and  diligence, 
That  child  may  don  to  fadres  reverence. 

Upon  Grisilde,  this  poure  creature, 
Ful  often  si  the  this  Markis  sette  his  eye, 
As  he  on  hunting  rode  paraventure: 
And  whan  it  fell  that  he  might  hire  espie, 
He  not  with  wanton  loking  of  folie 
His  eyen  cast  on  hire,  but  in  sad  wise 
Upon  hire  chere  he  wold  him  oft  avise, 

Commending  in  his  herte  hire  wTomanhede, 
N      And  eke  hire  vertue,  passing  any  wight 
Of  so  yong  age,  as  wel  in  chere**  as  dede. 
For  though  the  peple  have  no  gret  insight 
In  vertue,  he  considered  ful  right 
Hire  bountee,ff  and  disposed  that  he  wold 
Wedde  hire  only,  if  ever  he  wedden  shold. 

The  day  of  wedding  came,  but  no  wight  can 
Tellen  what  woman  that  it  shulde  be, 
For  which  mervailleJJ  wondred  many  a  man, 

*  Village.         t  Gluttonous.          |  Grown.          §  A  vessel  for  liquor. 
||  Cabbages.      ^  Kept  up  her  father's  life.  **  Countenance. 

ft  Goodness,    ft  Marvel. 


CH A  UCER.  623 


And  saiden,  whan  they  were  in  privetee, 
Wol  not  our  lord  yet  leve  his  vanitee? 
Wol  he  not  wedde?  alas,  alas  the  while! 
Why  wol  he  thus  himself  and  us  begile  ? 

But  natheles*  this  Markis  hath  do  makef 
Of  gemmes,  sette  in  gold  and  in  asure, 
Broches  and  ringes,  for  Grisildes  sake, 
And  of  hire  clothing  toke  he  the  mesure 
Of  a  maiden  like  unto  hire  stature, 
And  eke  of  other  ornamentes  all, 
That  unto  swiche  a  wedding  shulde  fall. 

The  time  of  undernet  of  the  same  day 
Approcheth,  that  this  wedding  shulde  be, 
And  all  the  paleis  put  was  in  array, 
Both  halle  and  chambres,  eche  in  his  degree, 
Houses  of  office  stuffed  with  plentee 
Ther  mayst  thou  see  of  deinteous  vitaille,§ 
That  may  be  found,  as  fer  as  lasteth  Itaille. 

This  real  j|  Markis  richely  arraide, 
Lordes  and  ladies  in  his  compagnie, 
The  which  unto  the  feste  weren  praide,^ 
And  of  his  retenue  the  bachelerie, 
With  many  a  soun  of  sondry  melodie, 
Unto  the  village,  of  the  which  I  told, 
In  this  array  the  righte  way  they  hold. 

Grisilde  of  this  (God  wot)  ful  innocent, 
That  for  hire  shapen  was  all  this  array, 
To  fetchen  water  at  a  welle  is  went, 
And  cometh  home  as  sone  as  ever  she  may. 
For  wel  she  had  herd  say,  that  thilke  day 
The  Markis  shulde  wedde,  and,  if  she  might, 
She  wolde  fayn  han  seen  som  of  that  sight. 

She  thought,  I  wol  with  other  maidens  stond,** 
That  ben  my  felawes,ff  in  our  dore,  and  see 
The  markisesse,  and  therto  wol  I  fond  H 
To  don  at  home,  as  sone  as  it  may  be, 
The  labour  which  that  longeth  unto  me, 
And  than  I  may  at  leiser  hire  behold, 
If  she  this  way  unto  the  castel  hold. 

And  as  she  wolde  over  the  threswoldgg  gon, 
The  Markis  came  and  gan  hire  for  to  call, 
And  she  set  doun  hire  water-pot  anon 


*  Nevertheless.          f  Caused  to  be  made.          J  Nine  o'clock. 
§  Dainty  victuals.      ||  Royal.        f  Invited.         **  Stand, 
ft  Companions.         ft  Contrive.  j$  Threshold. 


624  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


Beside  the  threswold*  in  an  oxes  stall, 
And  doun  upon  hire  knees  she  gan  to  fall, 
And  with  sad  countenance  kneleth  still, 
Til  she  had  herd  what  was  the  lordes  will. 

This  thoughtful  Markis  spake  unto  this  maid 
Ful  soberly,  and  said  in  this  manere : 
Wher  is  your  fader,  Grisildis?  he  said. 
And  she  with  reverence  in  humble  chere 
Answered,  lord,  he  is  al  redy  here. 
And  in  she  goth  withouten  lenger  lette,f 
And  to  the  Markis  she  hire  fader  fette.J 

He  by  the  hond.than  toke  this  poure  man, 
And  saide  thus,  whan  he  him  had  aside : 
Janicola,  I  neither  may  ne  can 
Lenger  the  plesance  of  min  herte  hide, 
If  that  thou  vouchesauf,  what  so  betide, 
Thy  doughter  wol  I  take,  or  that  I  wend, 
As  for  my  wif,  unto  hire  lives  end. 

Thou  lovest  me,  that  wot  I  wel  certain, 
And  art  my  faithful  liegeman  ybore, 
And  all  that  liketh  me,  I  dare  wel  sain 
It  liketh  thee,  and  specially  therfore        ' 
Tell  me  that  point,  that  I  have  said  before, 
If  that  thou  wolt  unto  this  purpos  drawe, 
To  taken  me  as  for  thy  son  in  lawe. 

This  soden  casg  this  man  astoned  so, 
That  red  he  wex,  abaist,  ||  and  al  quaking 
He  stood,  unnethes^[  said  he  wordes  mo, 
But  only  thus :   Lord,  quod  he,  my  willing 
Is  as  ye  wol,  ne  ap-eins  your  liking 
I  wol  no  thing,  min  owen  lord  so  dere, 
Right  as  you  list,  governeth  this  matere. 

Than  wol  I,  quod  this  Markis  softely, 
That  in  thy  chambre,  I,  and  thou,  and  she, 
Have  a  collation,  and  wost  thou  why? 
For  I  wol  ask  hire,  if  it  hire  wille  be 
To  be  my  wif,  and  reule  hire  after  me: 
And  all  this  shal  be  don  in  thy  presence, 
I  wol  not  speke  out  of  thin  audience. 

And  in  the  chambre,  while  they  were  aboute 
The  tretee,  which  as  ye  shul  after  here, 
The  peple  came  into  the  hous  withoute, 

*  Threshold.  f  Longer  delay.  %  Fetched. 

§  Sudden  case.  ||  Abashed.  \  Scarcely. 


CHAUCER.  625 


And  wondred  hem,  in  how  honest  manere 
Ententifly*  she  kept  hire  fader  dere: 
But  utterly  Grisildis  wonder  might, 
For  never  erst  ne  saw  she  swiche  a  sight. 

No  wonder  is  though  that  she  be  astoned, 
To  see  so  gret  a  gest  come  in  that  place, 
She  never  was  to  non  swiche  gestes  woned,t 
For  which  she  loked  with  ful  pale  face. 
But  shortly  forth  this  matere  for  to  chace, 
Thise  arn  the  wordes  that  the  Markis  said 
To  this  benigne,  veray,  J  faithful  maid. 

Grisilde,  he  said,  ye  shuln  wel  understond, 
It  liketh  to  your  fader  and  to  me, 
That  I  you  wedde,  and  eke  it  may  so  stond 
As  I  suppose,  ye  wol  that  it  so  be  : 
But  thise  demaundes  aske  I  first  (quod  he) 
That  sin  it  shal  be  don  in  hasty  wise, 
Wol  ye  assent,  or  elles  g  you  avise  ? 

I  say,  this,  be  ye  redy  with  good  herte 
To  all  my  lustj  and  that  I  freely  may 
As  me  best  thinketh  do^"  you  laugh  or  smerte, 
And  never  ye  to  grutchen,  night  ne  day, 
And  eke  whan  I  say  ya,  ye  say  not  nay, 
Neither  by  word,  ne  frouning  countenance  ? 
Swere  this,  and  here  I  swere  our  alliance. 

Wondring  upon  this  thing,  quaking  for  drede, 
She  saide ;  Lord,  indigne  and  unworthy 
Am  I,  to  thilke  honour,  that  ye  me  bede,** 
But  as  ye  wol  yourself,  right  so  wol  I : 
And  here  I  swere,  that  never  willingly 
In  werk,  ne  thought,  I  n'  ill  you  disobeie 
For  to  be  ded,  though  me  were  loth  to  deie. 

This  is  ynough,  Grisilde  min,  quod  he. 
And  forth  he  goth  with  a  ful  sobre  chere, 
Out  at  the  dore,  and  after  than  came  she, 
And  to  the  peple  he  said  in  this  manere: 
This  is  my  wif,  quod  he,  that  stondeth  here. 
Honoureth  hire,  and  loveth  hire,  I  pray, 
Who  so  me  loveth,  ther  n'  is  no  more  to  say. 

And  for ff  that  nothing  of  hire  olde  gere 
She  shulde  bring  into  his  hous,  he  bad 

*  Intentively.  t  Accustomed.  JTrue. 

3  Else  will  you  consider  it.      II  Pleasure.  tf  Cause. 

**  Offer.  ft  In  order  that. 

53  2P 


626  MANUAL   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

That  women  shuld  despoilen  hire  right  there; 
Of  which  thise  ladies  weren  nothing  glad 
To  handle  hire  clothes  wherein  she  was  clad: 
But  natheles  this  maiden  bright  of  hew 
Fro  foot  to  hed  they  clothed  han  all  new. 

Hire  heres  han  they  kempt,*  that  lay  untressed 
Ful  rudely,  and  with  hir  fingres  smal 
A  coroune  on  hire  hed  they  han  ydressed, 
And  sette  hire  ful  of  nouchesf  gret  and  smal: 
Of  hire  array  what  shuld  I  make  a  tale? 
Unnetht  the  peple  hire  knew  for  hire  fairnesse, 
Whan  she  transmewed$  was  in  swiche  richesse. 

This  Markis  hath  hire  spoused  with  a  ring 
Brought  for  the  same  cause,  and  than  hire  sette 
Upon  an  hors  snow-white,  and  wel  ambling, 
And  to  his  paleis,  or  he  lenger  lette,  || 
(With  joyful  peple,  that  hire  lad  and  metteff) 
Conveyed  hire,  and  thus  the  day  they  spende 
In  revel,  til  the  sonne  gan  descende. 

And  shortly  forth  this  tale  for  to  chace, 
I  say,  that  to  this  newe  markisesse 
God  hath  swiche  favour  sent  hire  of  his  grace, 
That  it  ne  semeth  not  by  likelinesse 
That  she  was  borne  and  fed  in  rudenesse, 
As  in  a  cote,  or  in  an  oxes  stall, 
But  nourished  in  an  emperoures  hall. 

To  every  wight  she  waxen  is  so  dere, 
And  worshipful,  that  folk  ther**  she  was  bore, 
And  fro  hire  birthe  knew  hire  yere  by  yere, 
UnnethesJ  trowed  ft  they,  but  dorst  han  swore, 
That  to  Janicle,  of  which  I  spake  before, 
She  doughter  n'as,|J  for  as  by  conjecture 
Hem  thoughte  she  was  another  creature. 

For  though  that  ever  vertuous  was  she, 
She  was  encresed  in  swiche  excellence 
Of  thewes^g  good,  yset  in  high  bountee, 
And  so  discrete,  and  faire  of  eloquence, 
So  benigne,  and  so  digne  of  reverence, 
And  coude  so  the  peples  herte  embrace, 
That  eche  hire  loveth  that  loketh  on  hire  face. 


*  Combed.  f  Ornaments  of  dress.  J  Scarcely. 

\  Changed.          ||  Ere  he  longer  delayed.  f  Led  and  met  her. 

**  Where.  tt  Believed.  ft  Was  not. 

gg  Manners  or  qualities. 


CHAUCER.  62' 


Not  only  this  Grisildis  thurgh  hire  wit 
Coude  all  the  fete  of  wifly  homlinesse, 
f  But  eke  whan  that  the  cas  required  it, 
The  comune  profit  coude  she  redresse: 
Ther  n'  as  discord,  rancour,  ne  hevinesse 
In  all  the  lond,  that  she  ne  coude  appese, 
And  wisely  bring  hem  all  in  hertes  ese. 

Though  that  hire  husbond  absent  were  or  no, 
If  gentilmen,  or  other  of  that  contree 
Were  wroth,  she  wolde  bringen  hem  at  on,* 
So  wise  and  ripe  wordes  hadde  she, 
And  jugement  of  so  gret  exquitee, 
That  she  from  heven  sent  was,  as  men  wend,f 
Peple  to  save,  and  every  wrong  to  amend. 

Chaucer's  genius  was  one  of  most  comprehensive  mold,  Shake- 
speare's alone  surpassing  it  in  this  respect.  And  like  the  latter's, 
too,  it  was  admirably  balanced.  Humor,  pathos,  and  sound  sense 
entered  into  his  every  creation,  and  these  blended  their  various 
colors  with  singularly  harmonious  effects.  He  was  emphatically 
a  poet  of  Nature— a  poetical  Antaeos,  whose  safety  and  strength 
lay  in  keeping  close  to  the  bosom  of  his  mother  Earth.  The  dewy 
freshness  of  the  grass,  the  multiplex  dyes  of  flowers  and  their  fra- 
grant breaths,  the  melodious  warblings  of  birds,  the  pleasing  tur- 
moil of  running  waters,  and  the  play  and  chase  of  sky-tints  salute 
us  anew,  and  most  charmingly,  as  we  turn  his  pages.  And  through 
all  what  a  vigorous,  agile,  lusty  spirit  do  we  espy,  pursuing  every 
beautiful  thing,  and  yearning  to  embrace  within  its  generous  arms 
the  physical  universe  and  every  sentient  creature ! 

*  Would  bring  them  at  one,  i.  e.  reconcile  them.  f  Ween'd  or  supposed. 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS. 


ADDISON,  JOSEPH,  44,  45,  497-508. 

AINSWOKTH,  W.  H.,  55. 

AKENSIDE,  MARK,  47. 

ALCUIN,  20. 

ALDHELM,  20. 

ALFORD,  DEAN,  65. 

ALFRED,  KINO,  21. 

ALFRIC,  21. 

ALISON,  SIR  ARCHIBALD,  62,  63. 

ANDREW  OF  WYNTON,  27. 

ANDREWES,  BISHOP,  34. 

ANEURIN,  18. 

ANSELM,  22. 

ARBUTHNOT,  DR.  JOHN,  44. 

ARNOLD,  MATTHEW,  51,  52,  66. 

THOMAS,  60,  62. 

ASCHAM,  ROGER,  30. 
ATTERBURY,  BISHOP,  45. 
AUSTEN,  Miss,  54,  55. 
AYTOUN,  W.  E.,  63. 

BACON,  LORD,  34,  588-596. 

ROGER,  22. 

BAGS,  ROBERT,  53. 
BAILLIE,  JOANNA,  51,  52. 
BALE,  BISHOP,  85,  86. 
BANIM,  JOHN,  55. 
BARBOUR,  27. 
BARROW,  ISAAC,  43. 
BAXTER,  RICHARD,  40. 
BAYLY,  THOMAS  H.,  51. 
BEAUMONT,  THOMAS,  37. 
53* 


BECKFORD,  WILLIAM,  55. 
BEDE,  20. 
BEHN,  MRS.,  42. 
BERKELEY,  BISHOP,  45. 
BERNERS,  LORD,  29. 
BLACKSTONE,  SIR  WILLIAM,  46. 
BLESSINGTON,  LADY,  55. 

BOLINGBROKE,  VlSCOUNT,  45. 

BOSWELL,  JAMES,  46. 

BOWLES,  W.  L.,  51. 

BREWSTER,  SIR  DAVID,  65. 
j  BRIGHT,  JOHN,  65. 
'  BRONTE,  CHARLOTTE,  55,  58. 
i  BROOKE,  LORD,  33. 

BROOKS,  C.  S.,  55. 

BROUGHAM,  HENRY,  63,  65. 

BROWN,  THOMAS,  65. 

BROWNE,  SIR  THOMAS,  39. 

BROWNING,  MRS.  E.  B.,  61,  52,  95- 
107. 

BROWNING,  ROBERT,  51,  52,  83-94. 

BRUNTON,  MRS.,  54. 

BUCHANAN,  ROBERT,  51.  52. 

BUCKLE,  H.  T.,  62. 

BUDGELL,  EUSTACE,  45. 

BULWER-LYTTON,  SIR  E.  G.,  65,  63, 
217-220. 

BULWER-LYTTON,  HENRY,  51. 

BUNYAN,  JOHN,  40,  523-528. 

BURKE,  EDMUND,  46,  467-476. 

BURNEY,  Miss,  54. 

BURNS,  ROBERT,  49,  51.  853-867. 

BURTON.  ROBERT,  34. 

629 


680 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


BURNET,  GILBERT,  43. 
BUTLER,  SAMUEL,  41,  529-537. 

BISHOP,  46. 

BYRON,  LORD,  50,  61,  187-197. 

O. 

CAEDMON,  20,  21. 

CAMDEN,  WILLIAM,  33. 

CAMPBELL.  THOMAS,  50,  51. 

CANNING,  GEORGE,  65. 

CAREW,  THOMAS,  38. 

CARLETON,  WILLIAM,  55. 

CARLYLE,  THOMAS,  62,  63,  305-313. 

CAXTON,  WILLIAM,  27. 

CHALMERS,  THOMAS,  65. 

CHAMIER,  CAPTAIN,  55. 

CHAPMAN,.  GEORGE,  33,  37. 

CHATTERTON,  THOMAS,  47. 

CHAUCER,  GEOFFREY,  23, 25,613-627. 

CHEKE,  JOHN,  30. 

CHILLINGWORTH,  WILLIAM,  40. 

CHURCHYARD,  THOMAS,  33. 

CLARENDON,  EARL  OF,  42. 

CLEVELAND,  JOHN,  38. 

COBDEN,  RICHARD,  65. 

COLEMANS,  GEORGE  (senior  and  ju- 
nior), 47. 

COLENSO,  BISHOP,  65. 

COLERIDGE,  HARTLEY,  51 ;  SARA,  51 ; 
SAMUEL  T.,  50,  51,  63,  177-186. 

COLLINS,  WILKIE,  55 ;  WILLIAM,  47. 

CONGREVE,  WILLIAM,  42. 

COOK,  ELIZA,  51,  52. 

COWLEY,  ABRAHAM,  38,  39. 

COWPER,  WILLIAM,  49,  51,  340-352. 

CRABBE,  GEORGE,  47,  50,  51. 

CRANMER,  30. 

CRASHAW,  RICHARD,  38. 

CROKER,  CROFTON,  55;  J.  W.,  63. 

CROLY,  GEORGE,  51. 

CROWE,  MRS.,  55. 


j  CROWNE,  JOHN,  42. 
CUDWORTH,  RALPH,  43. 
CUMBERLAND,  RICHARD,  47. 
GUMMING,  JOHN,  65. 
CUNNINGHAM,  ALLAN.  51. 
CUPPLES,  MR.,  55. 
CYNEWULF,  21. 

ID. 

DANIEL,  SAMUEL,  33. 

DARWIN.  CHARLES,  65. 

DAVENANT,  SIR  WILLIAM,  38. 

DAVIES,  SIR  JOHN,  33. 

DE  FOE,  DANIEL,  46,  434-442. 

DEKKER,  THOMAS,  37. 

DENHAM,  SIR  JOHN,  38. 

DE  QUINCEY,  THOMAS,  63,  273-278. 

DICKENS,  CHARLES,  55,  58,  230-244. 

DISRAELI,  BENJAMIN,  55,  65. 

ISAAC,  65. 

DONNE,  JOHN,  33. 
DOUGLAS,  GAVIN,  27. 
DRAKE,  NATHAN,  65. 
DRAPER,  W.,  62. 
DRAYTON,  MICHAEL,  33. 
DRUMMOND,  WILLIAM,  33. 
DRYDEN,  JOHN,  42,  509-522. 
DUNBAR,  WILLIAM,  27,  28. 

IE. 

EASTLAKE,  C.  L.,  65. 
EDGEWORTH,  Miss,  54,  55. 
EDWARDS,  RICHARD,  33. 
"ELIOT,  GEORGE,"  55,  210-216. 
ETHEREGE,  SIR  GEORGE,  42. 
EVELYN,  JOHN,  42. 

Z". 

FABER,  G.  S.,  65. 
FAIRBAIRN,  PROFESSOR,  65. 
FAIRFAX,  EDWARD,  33. 
FARADAY,  MICHAEL,  65, 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


631 


FARQUHAB,  GEORGE,  42. 
FARRAR,  F.  W.,  65. 
FIELDING,  HENRY,  46,  427-433. 
FLETCHERS,  THE,  33,  37. 
FOOTE,  SAMUEL,  47. 
FORD,  JOHN,  33. 
Fox,  W.  J.,  46. 
FOXE,  JOHN,  33. 
FRASER,  J.  B.,  55. 
FREEMAN,  E.  A.,  62. 
FROUDE,  JAMES  A.,  62,  300-804. 
FULLER,  THOMAS,  40. 

Gr. 

GALT,  JOHN,  55. 
GARRICK,  DAVID,  47. 
GASCOIGNE,  GEORGE,  33. 
GASKELL,  MRS.,  55,  58. 
GAY,  THOMAS,  44. 
GEOFFREY  OF  MONMOUTH,  22. 

OF  VINSAUF,  22. 

GIBBON,  EDWARD,  46,  443-449. 
GIBSON,  T.  M.,  65. 
GIFFORD,  WILLIAM,  63. 
GIRALDUS,  C.,  22. 
GLADSTONE,  W.  E.,  65. 
GLASSCOCK,  CAPTAIN,  55. 
GODWIN,  WILLIAM,  53,  55. 
GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER,  46,  368-379. 
GORE,  MRS.,  55. 
GOWER,  JOHN,  24,  25. 
GRAHAM  E,  JAMES,  51. 
GRAY,  THOMAS,  47,  380-385. 
GREENE,  ROBERT,  36. 
GREY,  EARL,  65. 
GRIFFIN,  GERALD,  55. 
GROTE,  GEORGE,  60,  314-321. 


HALES,  ALEXANDER,  22 ;  JOHN,  40. 
HALL,  JOSEPH,  33;  MRS.,  55;  ROB 
ERT,  65. 


HALLAMS,  HENRY,  62,  334-339. 
HAMILTON,  MRS.,  54;  SIR  WILLIAM, 

65. 

HANNAY,  55. 

HAWES,  STEPHEN,  30,  31. 
HAZLITT,  WILLIAM,  63,  292-299. 
HEBER,  DR.  R.,  51. 
HEMANS,  MRS.,  51,  52,  166-176. 
HENRY  OF  HUNTINGDON,  22. 

"BLIND  HARRY,"  27,  28. 

HENRYSON,  ROBERT,  27,  28. 
HERBERT,  GEORGE,  38;    LORD,  34; 

WILLIAM,  51. 
HERRICK,  ROBERT,  38. 
HERSCHEL,  SIR  JOHN,  65. 
HEYWOOD,  JOHN,  29,  35 ;    THOMAS, 

37. 

HIGDEN,  RALPH,  22. 
HILARIUS,  22,  23. 
HOBBES,  THOMAS,  34. 
HOGG,  JAMES,  51,  55,  63. 
HOLCROFT,  THOMAS,  53. 

HOLLINSHED,  RAPHAEL,  33. 

HOOD,  THOMAS,  51,  143-154. 
HOOK,  THEODORE,  55. 
HOOKER,  RICHARD,  33. 
HOPE,  THOMAS,  55. 
HORNER,  FRANCIS,  63. 
HOWARD,  55. 
HUGHES,  THOMAS,  55. 
HUME,  DAVID,  46,  450-457. 
HUNT,  LEIGH,  50,  51. 
HUXLEY,  THOMAS,  65. 

X. 

INCHBALD,  MRS.,  54. 
INGELOW,  JEAN,  51,  52. 


JAMES,  I.,  27 ;  G.  P.  R. 
JAMESON,  MRS.,  65. 
JEFFREY,  FRANCIS,  63. 


J,  56, 


632 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


JERROLD,  DOUGLAS,  55,  63. 
JEWEL,  BISHOP,  33. 
JOHN  OF  SALISBURY,  22. 
JOHNSON,  DR.  SAMUEL,  45,  46,  477 

486. 

JONSON,  BEN,  37,  555-568. 
JOSEPH  OF  EXETER,  22. 
"JuNius,"  46. 

KEATS,  JOHN,  50,  51. 
KINGSLEY,  CHARLES,  55,  58. 
KNOWLES,  J.  S.,  51. 
KYD,  THOMAS,  36. 


LAMB,  CAROLINE,  55  ;  CHARLES,  63, 

287-291. 

LANDON,  Miss,  51. 
LANDOR,  WALTER  S.,  50,  51,  63,  108- 

118. 

LANFRANC,  22. 

LANGLANDE,  ROBERT,  24,  25. 
LATIMER,  30. 
LAYAMON,  22. 

LEE,  NATHANIEL,  42  ;  Miss,  54. 
L'ESTRANGE,  SIR  ROGER,  42. 
LEVER,  CHARLES  J.,  55. 
LEWES,  SIR  GEORGE,  60;  G.  H.,  55, 

65. 

LEWIS,  MATTHEW  G.,  53. 
LIGHTFOOT,  J.  B.,  65. 
LINDSAY,  A.  W.,  65. 
LLYWARCH,  18. 
LOCKE,  JOHN,  43. 
LOCKER,  FREDERICK,  52. 
LOCKHART,  JOHN  G.,  55,  63. 
LOVELACE,  SIR  RICHARD,  38. 
LOVER,  SAMUEL,  55. 
LYDGATE,  JOHN,  27. 
LYELL,  SIR  CHARLES,  65. 
LYLY,  JOHN,  36. 


LYNDHURST,  LORD,  65. 
LYNDSAY,  SIR  DAVID,  30,  31. 

3VX. 

MACAULAY,  LORD,  62,63,65,322-333. 
MACDONALD,  GEORGE.  51,  52,  55. 
MACKAY,  CHARLES,  52. 
MACKINTOSH,  SIR  JAMES,  62,  63,  65. 
MACPHERSON,  JAMES,  47. 
MANDEVILLE,  BERNARD,  45. 

SIR  JOHN,  24. 

MANNING,  ARCHBISHOP,  65. 

MANSEL,  H.  L.,  65. 

MAP  (or  MAPES),  WALTER,  22. 

MARLOWE,  CHRISTOPHER,  37. 

MARRYAT,  CAPTAIN,  55. 

MARSH,  MRS.,  55. 

MARTINEAU,  JAMES,  65 ;  Miss,  55. 

MASSEY,  GERALD,  51. 

MASSINGER,  PHILIP,  37. 

MASSON,  DAVID,  65. 

MATURIN,  CHARLES  R.,  53. 

MAXWELL,  W.  H.,  55. 

McNEiLE,  REV.  H.,  65. 

MERLIN,  18. 

MIDDLETON,  THOMAS,  37. 

MILL,  JAMES,  65 ;  JOHN  S.,  65. 

MILLER,  THOMAS,  55 ;  HUGH,  65. 

MILLMAN,  H.  H.,  62. 

MILTON,  JOHN,  39,  538-554. 

MINOT,  LAWRENCE,  24. 

MITFORD,  Miss,  54,  55. 

MOIR,  DR.,  63. 

MONTAGU,  LADY,  45. 

MONTGOMERY,  JAMES,  51 ;    ROBERT, 

51. 

MOORE,  THOMAS,  50,  51,  119-128. 
MORE,  HANNAH,  54;   SIR  THOMAS, 

29,  30. 

MORELL,  J.  D.;  65. 
MORGAN   LADY,  54. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


633 


MORIEE,  JAMES,  55. 
MORRIS,  WILLIAM,  51,  52. 
MOTHERWELL,  WlLLIAM,  51. 
MULLER,  MAX,  65. 
MOLOCH,  Miss,  55. 

3NT. 

NASH,  THOMAS,  36. 
NECKAM,  ALEXANDER,  22. 
NEWMAN,  F.  W.,  65 ;  J.  H.,  65. 
NEWTON,  SIR  ISAAC,  43,  44. 
NICHOLAS  OF  GUILDFORD,  22. 
NORTON,  MRS.,  51,  52;  THOMAS,  36. 


OCCLEVE,  THOMAS,  27. 
O'CoNNELL,  DANIEL,  65. 
OLIPHANT,  MRS.,  55. 
OPIE,  MRS.,  64. 
ORDERICUS,  VITALUS,  22. 
ORMIN,  22. 
OTWAY,  THOMAS,  42. 
OWEN,  RICHARD,  65. 


PALEY,  WILLIAM,  46. 

PALGRAVE,  SIR  FRANCIS,  62. 

PALMERSTON,  LORD,  65. 

PARIS,  MATTHEW,  22. 

PARNELL,  THOMAS,  44,  45. 

PECOCK,  BISHOP,  28. 

PEELE,  GEORGE,  36 ;  SIR  ROBERT,  65. 

PEPYS,  SAMUEL,  42.     , 

PERCY,  BISHOP,  47. 

PETER  OF  BLOIS,  22. 

PHILIPS,  AMBROSE,  44. 

PITT,  EARL  OF  CHATHAM,  46. 

POLLOCK,  ROBERT,  61. 

POPE,  ALEXANDER,  44,  398-410. 

PRAED,  W.  M.,  51. 

PRIOR,  MATTHEW,  44. 


PROCTOR    ("BARRY    CORNWALL"), 

51,  52. 
PCSEY,  DR.,  65. 

<*• 

QUALES,  FRANCIS,  38. 


RADCLIFFE,  ANN,  63. 

RALEIGH,  SIR  WALTER,  33. 

RAWLINSON,  GEORGE,  62. 

READE,  CHARLES,  55. 

REEVE,  CLARA,  53. 

RICHARDSON,  SAMUEL,  46,  419-426. 

RIDLEY,  30. 

ROBERTSON,  WILLIAM,  46;  F.  W.,  65. 

ROEBUCK,  MR.,  65. 

ROGERS,  SAMUEL,  51. 

ROLLE,  RICHARD,  24. 

ROWE,  NICHOLAS,  42. 

RUSKIN,  JOHN,  65,  266-272. 

RUSSELL,  LORD  JOHN,  65. 


SACKVILLE,  THOMAS,  33,  36. 

SAVILE,  GEORGE,  42. 

SCOTT,  SIR  WALTER,  50,  51,  55,  63, 

.255-265. 

SCOTUS,  JOHN,  20,  22. 
SEELEY,  PROFESSOR,  65. 
SHADWELL,  THOMAS,  42. 
SHAFTESBURY,  LORD,  45. 
SHAIRP,  J.  C.,  65. 

SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM,  37, 569-587. 
SHEIL,  RICHARD  L.,  65. 
SHELLEY,  MRS.,  63,  55 ;   PERCY  B., 

50,  51,  198-209. 
SHENSTONE,  WILLIAM,  47. 
SHERIDAN,  RICHARD  B.,  46, 47,  468- 

466. 

SHERLOCK,  WILLIAM,  43. 
SHIRLEY,  JAMES,  37. 


634 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


SIDNEY,  SIR  PHILIP,  32. 

SKELTON,  JOHN,  30,  31. 

SMITH,  ADAM,  46,  62 ;  ALEXANDER, 
52 ;  GOLDWIN,  62 ;  HORACE,  51, 
55 ;  MRS.,  54 ;  SYDNEY,  63. 

SMOLLETT,  TOBIAS,  46,  411-418. 

SOTHEBY,  WILLIAM,  51. 

SOUTH,  ROBERT,  43. 

SOUTHERNE,  THOMAS,  42. 

SOUTHEY,  MRS.  (Miss  BOWLES),  51 ; 

ROBERT,  50,  51,  155-165. 
SOUTHWELL,  ROBERT,  33. 
SPEED,  JOHN,  33. 
SPENCER,  HERBERT,  65. 
SPENSER,  EDMUND,  32,  597-612. 
SPRAT,  THOMAS,  43. 
SPURGEON,  C.  H.,  65 
STANLEY,  DEAN,  65;  LORD,  65. 
STEELE,  SIR  RICHARD,  45. 
STERNE,  LAURENCE,  46. 
STEWART,  DUGALD,  65. 
STILLINGFLEET,  EDWARD,  43. 
STIRLING,  EARL  OF,  33 ;  J.  H.,  65. 
SUCKLING,  SIR  JOHN,  38. 
SURREY,  EARL  OF,  30,  31. 
SWIFT,  JONATHAN,  44,  45,  487-496. 
SWINBURNE,  ALGERNON,  51. 

•T. 

TALFOURD,  T.  N.,  63. 
TAYLOR,  HENRY,  51 ;  JEREMY,  39. 
TEMPLE,  SIR  WILLIAM,  45. 
TENNYSON,  ALFRED,  51,  52,  66-82. 
THACKERAY,  W.  M.,  55,  57,  245-254. 
THIRLWALL,  BISHOP,  60. 
THOMSON,  JAMES,  47,  386-397. 

WILLIAM,  65. 

TICKELL,  THOMAS,  44. 
TILLOTSON,  JOHN,  43. 
TRELAWNEY,  CAPTAIN  E.  J.,  65. 


TRENCH,  DEAN,  65. 

TROLLOPE,  ANTHONY,  55;  MRS.,  64, 

55. 

TUBERVILLE,  GEORGE,  33. 
TYNDALE,  WILLIAM,  30. 
TYNDALL,  JOHN,  65. 

TJ. 

UDALL,  NICHOLAS,  29,  36. 

•XT'. 

VANBRUGH,  SIR  JOHN,  42. 
VAUGHAN,  ROBERT,  62,  65. 


WALLER,  EDMUND,  38. 

WALPOLE,  HORACE,  46,  53. 

WALTON,  IZAAK,  42. 

WARD,  R.  P.,  55. 

WARNER,  WILLIAM,  33. 

WEBSTER,  JOHN,  37,  38. 

WHATELY,  ARCHBISHOP,  65. 

WHEWELL,  WILLIAM,  65. 

WHITE,  H.  K.,  51. 

WILFRED,  20. 

WILLIAM   OF  MALMESBURY,  22;    OF 

OCCAM,  22  ;  OF  POICTIERS,  22. 
WILLIAMS,  ROWLAND,  65. 
WILSON,  JOHN,  55,  63,  279-286. 
WINDHAM,  RT.  HON.  WILLIAM,  46. 
WISEMAN,  CARDINAL,  65. 
WITHER,  GEORGE,  38. 
WORDE,  WUNKEN  DE,  25. 
WORDSWORTH,  WILLIAM,  50,  51,  63, 

129-142. 

WYATT,  SIR  THOMAS,  30,  31. 
WYCHERLEY,  WILLIAM,  42. 
WYCLIFFE,  JOHN  DE,  25. 


YOUNG,  EDWARD,  46. 


IETURN 


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